CC, JULIA THE WITCH, AND THE GUNFIGHT AT OK CORRAL
by Scarlet Garter
Summary: Julia returns to enlist CC's help going back to 1881 Tombstone, Arizona Territory, to save the life of Wyatt Earp. No smut, but probably T-plus for a few lascivious thoughts. Last two chapters up...
1. Chapter 1

**CHRISTOPHER CHANCE, JULIA THE WITCH, AND THE GUNFIGHT AT O.K. CORRAL**

_Author's note: In this story you will find references to two previous stories, "A Question of Tomorrow" in which Christopher Chance has an out-of-body experience that sends him to the 1920's, and "Broomtail" wherein Julia, the woman Chance mentions in "Lockdown" (Season 1, episode 6) but we never see, delivers a Halloween treat Chance will never forget. If you haven't read these stories, those references may be somewhat confusing._

CHAPTER ONE  
San Francisco, California  
2011

Chance stared gloomily at the monitor, waiting for Guerrero to return with take-out. They were between cases, it was raining cats and dogs, and he was bored out of his skull.

Rainwater sheeted from overflowing eaves filled with leaves blown in by nasty off-shore gusts, drenching the cracked sidewalk. It had been a bad year weather- and tectonic activity-wise. Tornadoes touched down in areas never before endangered, ferocious thunderstorms knocked out communications and flooded barren deserts. Earthquakes in greater number than anything recorded in the past decade set the earth trembling. Volcanoes erupted where no known volcanic activity existed. Rumor had it Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park now erupted from twenty to thirty minutes later or early. Sometimes not at all.

Rain San Franciscans could deal with, but earthquakes worried everyone. While mostly minor, they happened daily, sometimes several times in a single day. He could hear the low murmur of Ilsa on the phone, looking into having their aging warehouse home base retrofitted to withstand the all-too-frequent shocks. Then Julia Hastings' curvy form appeared in the security camera's monitor.

The last thing Chance needed was her popping back into his life.

He would never forget the night Julia took him flying. Not in a plane. It was Halloween eve - almost midnight. They collected her 'broom', Cedric she called it, at a mysterious stable somewhere in Golden Gate Park. Her broom looked like any average, ill-tempered dapple gray horse. They mounted up, riding double. Just as he was starting to enjoy himself, the damned horse launched itself into the sky and turned into…a flying broom.

She nearly gave him a heart attack with her wild practice flight over what she claimed was an obstacle course. Then she landed at the edge of a tangle-filled forest near the buffalo pasture and invited him into her family home to help hand out Halloween treats.

After that, things got a little hazy. He'd called Winston to come rescue him and was told to fuck off and go back to sleep. Maybe he had gone back to sleep. Or, maybe Julia led him down a twisting, curving jack-o-lantern lined path to, well, it looked like a gingerbread house, except it was the size of a condominium. Delicious aromas wafted from open windows made of spun sugar and licorice. The front door was a giant graham cracker. When someone opened it, he saw a huge black cauldron bubbling on the hearth and several black-clad women gathered at a table filling treat bags.

He recalled accepting a cup of mulled apple cider from someone. The next thing he remembered with any clarity was the sun peeping over the horizon. He was beside his car, kissing Julia goodbye, and trying to coax her up to his loft in the warehouse.

"Someday," she promised him. "I'll be in touch."

He hadn't seen her since then, almost a year ago. Following their…adventure in Golden Gate Park, she seemed to drop off the face of the earth.

He had already endured the frustration of unanswered phone calls and unreturned e-mails trying to contact her. He didn't intend to suffer through that again. When he couldn't locate the cottage where - he thought for certain - her family lived, nor the stable where she boarded her horse, her 'broom', ha ha, he decided he was better off letting this particular relationship die on the vine.

After all, it wasn't as if she really were the nice, normal, bookish girl he believed she was when they met. Granted she hadn't been kidnapped, he didn't have to pull her from a burning building nor dodge knives or bullets she was aiming at him, but this nice, normal, bookish girl suffered from the delusion that she was a witch. And whatever was in the mulled cider he shared with her and her aunts and her sisters had almost convinced him she indeed was one. What besides witchcraft turned a cranky dapple gray stallion into a flying broom?

A woman who made a man believe that could happen was just too dangerous.

He was about to jump on the elevator, meet her at the door, and send her on her merry way when the security camera showed Guerrero arriving, half buried under the bags and boxes he was balancing. As he freed one finger to punch in the lock-release code, the parcels leaped like startled cats from his grasp and scattered in every direction.

Julia, laughing, helped pick everything up, piled the parcels in Guerrero's arms, and followed him into the building. Moments later the elevator door slid open.

"Someone to see you, Dude," Guerrero said. He headed for the kitchen, dripping water with every stride.

Chance waited, spine rigid, arms locked behind him. Julia pushed back the hood of her leopard-print cape, letting her glorious mane of frizzy red hair spill free. She looked like Bette Midler, made up for "Gypsy". He'd always had a thing for Bette Midler.

She crossed the reception area to greet him. "Christopher! It's so wonderful to see you again!" She stood on tiptoe to deliver a peck on the cheek.

"Seems like forever," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "What's it been, a year?"

"Not quite. Did you miss me?"

"How's Cedric?"

"Oh, he's doing splendidly. I took him with me, of course, and we had any number of wonderful rides. I won three more races with him." She paused and took a step back. "You look upset. You did get my message, didn't you? That I was returning to school and would be away for a time? I'm an adept now. Full fledged."

There she went with that damned witch nonsense again. He'd received a card from her, well, he supposed it was from her, a week or so after their 'date'. He'd thrown it away, unopened.

"No," Chance said. "I'm not upset."

"Good. Because I need to hire you. I have a mission to undertake and I'll need a bodyguard and - "

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry. I can't help you, Julia. We don't have anyone free to take your case. I can call a colleague who might be available-"

"Oh, but I can't use your colleague. It has to be you." She studied him with a questioning tilt to her head. "Maybe, since this will be somewhat beyond the ordinary get-me-there, get-me-home-safe assignment a bodyguard usually undertakes, my…sorority can pay a little more than your customary fee, if that's what the problem is."

"Sorority."

"Yes. Coven if you prefer the more archaic term."

He didn't.

He had forgotten just how much he liked Julia. That he more than liked her. She had no idea how sexy she was, how good she smelled. How delicious she tasted when he kissed her. With her so close, his recollection was returning full force. And it only spelled trouble - to borrow a witchcraft term. He reminded himself he'd made up his mind to sweep her - and her broom - out of his life.

When he didn't reply, Julia looked down at the floor where, oddly, no rainwater had dripped of her cape and made puddles. She plucked at one gold button.

"You haven't even listened to what I need you to do. At least you could hear me out."

The gold button twinkled. Then, despite commanding his tongue and lips to freeze in place, Chance heard himself say, "C'mon in the conference room."

He drew out a chair and watched Julia settle into it, graceful as a well-fed tabby claiming a silken pillow. He dragged out a second chair, spun it around, and straddled it.

Arms folded atop the backrest, he said, "Okay, tell me what's so special about this particular job and why it has to be me."

"We'll be going back to 1881."

When he finished laughing, Chance said, "That's ridiculous. No one can travel through time."

"No?"

"No."

"So when you met Nikola Tesla, that was something your imagination manufactured?"

Chance stared at her. Thinking he'd dreamed it all was easier than accepting what the evidence - a hand-written note and a jar filled with coins dating 1925 or earlier - indicated was true. He rarely spoke about the incident that seemed to have thrown his consciousness back to the 1920s. Who'd believe it?

"How did you know - I never told you about that."

"We witches have our ways."

He raked his fingers through his hair. This was just too weird. "Why do you need a bodyguard? Can't you sort of…woo woo," he made circling motions with his fingers, "and…hex anyone threatening you?"

Julia glared. "I ought to 'woo woo' you, Christopher Chance. Let me remind you, we are speaking of the 1880s. A mere hundred and ninety years after the Salem witchcraft trials. What good does it do to hex someone only to have superstitious townsfolk burn you at the stake? Besides, hexes take too long to work. And in 1881, ladies did not travel the countryside or even around town without an escort."

A _mere_ hundred and ninety years. As if she were saying a hundred and ninety days. Just how old was she, Chance suddenly wondered.

Knowing he probably wouldn't like the answer, he asked, "And why is 1881 our target date?"

"Because that was the year Wyatt Earp was shot to death in the gunfight at O.K. Corral."


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO  
San Francisco, California  
2011

For a long moment, Chance didn't speak. Although he would rather endure an hour-long session with Guerrero and his tackle box than admit it, he had long been fascinated by the life and legend of Wyatt Earp. The gunfight pitting Wyatt, his brothers Virgil and Morgan, and gambler John H. "Doc" Holliday against the Clanton rustler gang was the actual incident upon which every western movie scene where good man faced bad in the middle of the street was based.

When he was just a kid and Gramps was still alive, the old man had raised his right hand and solemnly sworn he had met the elderly Wyatt Earp. "I was a lad about your age," Gramps told him. "The old lawman kinda took a shine to me. Paid me to run errands and such." It was possible Gramps was telling the truth. Before Earp's death in Los Angeles in 1929, he had lived in San Francisco from time to time. His wife, Josie, had family there.

"When Josie was out," Gramps told him, "Wyatt'd send me to the corner saloon to fetch a beer, and then sit spinning yarn after yarn about the old days in Dodge City and Silverton and Deadwood. Funny thing was, he never talked much about Tombstone. I always wondered why."

"I've read a few books about that gunfight," Chance said now. "From what I remember, Wyatt Earp was the only man who came though it unscathed."

"In this time line that's so," Julie said, "but I'm talking about what happened in a parallel universe."

"You've gotta be kidding. First time travel, now alternate universes. Give me a break."

"I most certainly am not kidding. Christopher," she said, leaning toward him, "you've observed the terrible weather this past year, the tornados and earthquakes. What do you suppose is causing it?"

Her abrupt change of topic left him floundering. "Causing it? I don't know, sun-spots? Magnetic field fluctuations? I'm no meteorologist, how would I know? Witchcraft, maybe."

He grinned. She didn't.

"That's what we thought. My sorority, I mean. That perhaps a rogue coven was up to something. But we've investigated, and that's not the problem. Something that occurred in a parallel universe is. You are familiar with the theory of parallel universes, aren't you? You must have read about it."

He had. Anyone who read science fiction would at some point encounter a story based on the author's assertion that parallel or alternate universes could and did exist. It was pure fiction. Harry Turtledove, one of his favorite authors, was a master at crafting alternate history novels.

"In 1954," Julia said, "Hugh Everett, a doctoral candidate, theorized other universes exist, very much like our own, and related to our own, but branched off from ours, which has branched off from another, over and over. Within these universes, wars or elections have different outcomes, species die, or do not die, or never exist. The movie _Planet of the Apes_ is a perfect example of a universe where the ape family evolves a higher intelligence than homo sapiens.

"Everett was investigating quantum physics. This is something far less complicated. The simplest explanation is, there is no other timeline where Wyatt Earp was killed to 'balance' the one where he was."

"Wait. You're saying the earthquakes and bad weather are happening here because _one _man in some alternate universe was killed when he wasn't in _any_ of the others. How can that be?"

"Which part?"

Chance swore and ran his hand through his hair again. "Any of it!"

"Our research indicates this imbalance is causing the 'wobble' that, after a hundred and twenty-some years, has become severe enough to cause earthquakes and freakish weather. If it's not corrected, that wobble will get worse and worse until our planet shakes itself to pieces."

"That's crazy. I don't believe for a minute something like that can happen."

"Do you want to take the risk? The Mayans predicted this world will come to an end in 2012.

Chance dismounted his chair and began pacing.

"Well, how, exactly, do you plan to set things right?" He knew she would have an answer, and he wasn't going to like it.

"The easiest solution would be to locate another nearby timeline, this one, for example, and go back and assassinate Wyatt Earp. Then a second universe would exist that balances the one where the anomaly occurs. But we're Wiccans. We don't advocate unnecessary death. Neither, Christopher, do you."

Chance scrubbed his palms over his face. "Tesla told me," he said, then paused to reflect on what he'd just said. The scientist had died some twenty years before Chance was born. "Tesla said our atoms vibrate at a specific frequency. He said those frequencies are what holds us to our proper place in time. It's the primary stumbling block to time travel. Why it can't work."

Chance couldn't believe he was discussing her plan to travel through time as if it had some logical merit.

"Your Mr. Tesla failed to take into account one thing."

"Oh, yeah? What might that be?"

Julia's eyes danced with mischief. "Witchcraft," she said, leaving Chance with the distinct impression he'd just been maneuvered by a master.

Neither Chance nor Julia had noticed the smooth click of approaching high heels. Both jumped and looked guilty when Ilsa said from the doorway, "Witchcraft? How interesting."

Chance introduced the women to each other, then added, "Umm…I was explaining to Julia…Miss Hastings…why we won't be taking her case."

"Really?" Ilsa's reply imbued the sole word she uttered with three rich, elegant syllables. "Why don't you explain it to me, as well, Mr. Chance."

She seated herself at the table, crossed her knees, folded her hands on the tabletop and assumed a listening intently pose.

For once Chance was grateful for Ilsa's meddling. Make that inquisitiveness. He was still trying to figure out why he even agreed to listen to Julia. She wouldn't win Ilsa over so easily. Once Ilsa heard a few sentences, she would dismiss Julia as a nut-case and that would be that.

Julia studied Ilsa Pucci with carefully concealed interest as she retold her story. Business partner my ass, she thought. Something far more potent than profit and loss statements had once flamed between her and Christopher. She'd seen residual sparks in his aura the night they met. This woman was the source.

She didn't blame Mrs. Pucci for sinking in her claws when the opportunity presented. Cougars were cougars, after all, and she looked very good for her age. What woman wouldn't be attracted to a man with Christopher's good looks, his hot physique, the undercurrent of dangerous male he tried to hide beneath a veneer of wit and urbane charm? Although she wasn't so sure about the wit. Still, what if he did tell jokes that stopped being funny when she entered fifth grade? Boys would be boys and the little boy who like to pretend he was Batman or Zorro or Luke Skywalker still resided deep in Christopher's psyche.

Oh, she knew about his past. A lot more than he'd told her. Enough to appreciate the strength and courage it took to overthrow the Darkness that almost claimed him. Alone, his beloved Gramps taken from him just when a boy most needed a strong father figure, angry at the world, he'd let himself be swayed. But not quite turned.

Watching him now as he tried to convince Ilsa Pucci this particular undertaking was not for him, she noted residual sparkles of her own life force glimmering in his aura. He'd tried to stifle the masculine awareness she aroused, and almost succeeded. But the sparkles told her the attraction lingered.

Her own infatuation was instant and overwhelming. The tiny little clumsiness spell she sent quivering his way in the bookstore was one of her best. The night she took him flying, their one kiss almost caused her to succumb to his charm, an act that would have terminated her eligibility to join the sisterhood's Circle of Power. When she surrendered her virginity to secure her adept status, it was only by imagining Christopher performing the act that she was able to endure it. Given the opportunity, she'd fan that glimmer to a radiance making his interest in Ilsa look like a blown-out match. But first they had to save the world.

Much to Chance's irritation, Ilsa still looked deeply absorbed when Julia finished her story.

"That's extraordinary," Ilsa said. "But one thing puzzles me, Julia. Why were you selected for this mission? You said yourself you're somewhat lacking in experience."

"None of us have ever attempted such an important undertaking. I was chosen because my great-great grandmother belonged to the Tombstone coven. Among witches, kin calls to kin. We believe it will be easier for me to transition through time and space than for someone unrelated."

"I'm not related to anyone who lived in Tombstone," Chance said, sounding surly even to himself.

"I am." Winston had entered the conference room and had been silently listening for some time. "Had a great-great uncle who lived there back in the day. He was a blacksmith."

"Don't tell me he worked at the O.K. Corral," Chance said.

"As a matter of fact, he did. Used to shoe all the rich folks' race horses."

"What a remarkable coincidence," Ilsa said.

Yeah. Remarkable, Chance thought. And right now I'm starting to wonder exactly how uncalculated meeting Julia really was.

"Actually, Christopher," Julia said, "you have the strongest tie possible, next to blood. Your grandfather knew Wyatt Earp. Spoke with him. Hero-worshipped him. You absorbed your grandfather's fascination with the gunfight and Wyatt's time in Tombstone."

Me and my big mouth, Chance thought, although he couldn't for the life of him remember telling Julia anything about Gramps.

"Combine that with your apparent affinity for time travel," Ilsa said, "and you become the perfect candidate to set things right, Mr. Chance."

Chance couldn't believe his ears. He'd expected Ilsa to dismiss outright Julia's claim to be a witch. She hadn't. He expected her to reject Julia's story as a fantastic contrivance, a pipe-dream. She didn't. Whose side was she on? He shot Ilsa an accusatory glance. _Traitor._

"Now hold on a minute, Chance," Winston said. "You're not thinking of trying this, are you? Last time, it damn near killed you."

"No. I'm not."

At least Winston was on his side. Two votes against one. And he knew he could count on Guerrero vetoing the mission. That made three.

"I'm growing dreadfully weary of having the earth constantly shaking under my feet," Ilsa said. "From the estimates I've gotten, earthquake-proofing this structure would cost more than tearing it down and rebuilding. If fixing a wobble will stop the earthquakes, I'm in favor of fixing the wobble."

Julia was persuasive, he had to give her that. But the entire scenario was too insane to be real. Why in hell didn't rational, sensible Ilsa see the impossibility?"

_Well, I've got as much say as anyone in what assignments this partnership undertakes. More, this time, since I'm not just the 'perfect' candidate, I'm the _only_ candidate._

Chance wanted nothing more to do with time travel, real or imagined-never mind leap-frogging from one universe to another.

"Let's say we all reach the conclusion this operation might fly, Mrs. Pucci," Winston said. "Do you want to risk Chance electrocuting himself again, just to see if it works the same way twice?"

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of asking him to do that," Julia said before Ilsa could reply. "We'll go by broomflight."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3  
San Francisco, California  
2011

Guerrero had brought enough food to feed a Cub Scout pack, so they invited Julia to stay for lunch. While they devoured Mandarin duck and sweet-and-sour pork and egg rolls, no one mentioned Julia's mission. Julia and Ilsa discussed their favorite Thoroughbred, Secretariat, one of whose racing quarter horse sons Ilsa owned. Guerrero and Winston argued the merits of the Sig Sauer P229 9mm versus Browning's HP 9-mil. Chance would never admit to _sulking_, but it sill irked him that Ilsa thought Julia's plan was such a great idea.

When the empty boxes were all in the trash and the dishwasher humming, Chance returned to the conference room. Julia followed. Everyone else found something important to do elsewhere.

Chance threw himself into a chair, folded his arms across his chest, and let his gaze focus on Julia. On her cat-green eyes and full lower lip. On her lush curves. His imagination kicked in, teasing off first the clingy aqua sweater, then the matching skirt, revealing a silken slip. Underneath he'd find a black lace teddy, waiting for him to peel it down…. Heat blasted him, unexpected and unwanted.

" - Christopher, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh? Sorry. I guess my mind drifted." Straight into one of his favorite fantasies.

He made himself study a framed 'painting' Ilsa had insisted on hanging in the conference room, some weird combination of circles and lines and upside down numerals in orange, green and purple which he customarily sat with his back to.

"So…what do we know about how…their Wyatt died?"

"Not a great deal," Julia said. "We know someone shot him. We don't know who. It might have been Ike Clanton. But it might have been a mistake or even accidental. Virgil, Morg, and Doc Holliday were wounded in every timeline we investigated. Only in this one was Wyatt not just shot, but killed."

Julia crossed her knees and tugged down her skirt.

"With Wyatt dead, the surviving brothers soon drifted out of town and into obscurity. Shootings like that weren't uncommon. No one in that timeline cared enough to bother collecting first-hand accounts of the fight, nor was it ever analyzed second-by-second the way it was here, so there aren't any scholarly books on the incident. Or even fiction. There were newspaper accounts at the time, the _Epitaph'_s of course, and their rival's, the _Nugget_, but they don't tell us much."

"I'd like to read one of their newspaper accounts. Can you get a copy for me?"

Julia smiled. "Got a computer I can use?"

Guerrero appeared as the software Julia needed finished down-loading. "What's _that_?" He sounded like he'd just spotted pink zebra stripes painted on his Eldo.

"So I can access the Library of Congress archives," Julia said.

"You don't need special software for that." Guerrero peered over Chance's shoulder at the monitor.

"For this archive, you do."

Yeah, Chance thought. Since it was coming from another universe. Better not tell Guerrero that.

"Chance, you know better than to download just anything into this system. Did you even run a virus scan on…whatever that is? Check for spyware?"

Julia smiled at Guerrero and twisted the gold broach on her sweater. "It's perfectly safe, Sweetling. Would you mind fixing us a pot of tea?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Back in a minute." Guerrero backed away from the computer as if in a film running in reverse.

"Take your time."

Chance shook his head in disbelief.

"Okay," Julia said, calling up the record she wanted, "here's the article from our timeline. This," she split the screen and called up another site, chanting under her breath as the image on the monitor drifted out of focus. In a moment, it became crystal clear again. "This is theirs."

_THREE MEN HURLED INTO ETERNITY_ read the headline from Chance's timeline. In place of '_THREE_', the alternate headline read '_FOUR'_.

Beyond that, Chance found only minor differences until he read the last few paragraphs in the alternate article.

_When for all intents and purposes the shooting  
had ceased, citizens believing themselves safe  
from straying bullets emerged from cover to view  
the resulting carnage. No one expected the  
final report, said to have come from the direc-  
tion of the rear entrance to the O.K. Corral. The  
projectile struck Wyatt Earp in the back and pas-  
sed through his body, killing him instantly._

_Witnesses agree Ike Clanton had moments before  
fled through the O.K. Corral, carrying a Winchester,  
later identified by photographer C. S. Fly as a wea-  
pon he kept for a prop in his studio. Apprehended  
minutes later at Kellogg's Saloon, Clanton avowed  
no knowledge of the fatal shot, but claimed to have  
observed a dark-clad figure carrying a rake or a  
rifle, walking in the direction whence he had come._

Then the articles once again duplicated each other's content.

"Huh," Chance said as he ordered printouts of both articles. "So it looks like Clanton could've doubled back, shot Wyatt, then tried to pin it on someone walking in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That's a possibility," Julia said.

"Did Clanton stand trial for shooting Wyatt?"

"He was arrested, but he skipped town as soon as someone bailed him out. Once Virgil and Morgan recovered, they would have gone after him if he stayed in Tombstone. If Doc Holliday didn't get him first."

Chance frowned. "Either way, Clanton was a gonner." He scanned the alternate article again. "If this account is accurate, all we have to do is stop Clanton from sneaking back and bushwhacking Wyatt."

"Christopher! Does that mean you'll do it? You'll help us?"

"It means I'll think about it." He wished he could stop thinking about that black lace teddy.

Chance saw Julia into a cab that appeared as if by magic outside the warehouse pedestrian door, and watched the tail-lights disappear into traffic on the next street.

If only she weren't so darn…cute, he thought.

As a rule, 'cute' didn't strike his fancy. He liked women who looked, well, womanly - not like teeny - boppers or Barbie dolls. A brain in their heads was a plus, as was the ambition and guts to do something with their intellect.

Julia possessed plenty of those. You couldn't become a witch, or pretend to be one so convincingly, simply by studying _Broomsticks for Dummies_.

But that Bette Midler hair and those delicious curves, and the I-dare-ya twinkle in her cat-green eyes mad him want to snatch her off her feet and nibble her ear and pinch her cheek. And then find something even more adventurous for them to do together.

"Oh, hell," he muttered and stomped across to the waiting elevator car.

Winston was still in his office, the notes he'd made while listening to Julia's argument spread across his desk.

"Tell me about your uncle," Chance said, settling in the visitor's chair.

"Moses Winston. Don't know a whole lot about him. I'm descended from his sister. The family got separated in the war and never reconnected. My side never stopped looking. Kept the family name the same. Anyone marrying in - man or woman - became a Winston so Uncle Mos' kin would know them if they came looking. I found him on the Internet."

A computer search had showed one Moses Winston in the Union Army's "enlisted" rolls from 1862 until 1866, with numerous asterisks indicating medals awarded for valor and sharp-shooting skills. From 1866 to 1874, his name appeared in the crack Indian fighting 10th Cavalry Regiment, the Buffalo Soldiers, one of their first NCO's. In 1876, his name turned up as a deputy U.S. marshal policing the Western District of the Arkansas, Indian Territories. By 1870, the name disappeared from government records, but an 1880 census search showed one Moses Winston, Negro, age 43, occupation blacksmith, residing in Tombstone, Arizona Territory.

Winston pulled out his wallet, flipped through several plastic sleeves, then withdrew a photograph. "Great great gran Naomi," he said, handing Chance the photograph.

The woman posed on a stool hidden by the waterfall of drapery, swags, and frills making up the bustle of her afternoon dress. The fitted bodice had long sleeves and a high collar trimmed with a cameo broach. She wore an elaborately folded tignon in lieu of a hat. She gazed into the distance with an expression both dignified and somehow terribly sad.

"Gran Naomi never stopped looking," Winston repeated. "Damn shame she passed before the Internet was invented."

"Tell me where she lived and I'll point Moses in her direction when I see him. Oh, make me a copy of that photo, will you?"

"I guess that means you've decided to go along with this crazy time-travel scheme."

"I guess it means I have."

Later that evening Chance searched through his collection for books about Wyatt Earp, Tombstone, and the gunfight. For the most part, they related the same basic story.

The day before the gunfight, rustler gang leader Ike Clanton had ridden into town, on the prod and looking for trouble. Ike spent much of the night drinking and gambling. The more he drank, the more obnoxious he became. But it was the following afternoon, October 26, 1881, when things came to a head. The behavior of Clanton and his followers - ignoring the city ordinance against wearing guns on the street, making threats against the Earps, and finally positioning themselves between Doc Holliday and his home at Molly Fly's boarding house, could no longer be tolerated.

Although most early books referred to Wyatt as deputy U.S. marshal, Virgil Earp wore that badge, as well as the city marshal's star. Wyatt was, in fact, Virgil's deputy. Morgan, their younger brother, free-lanced as Wells, Fargo and Company's shotgun guard on the treasure stages, and as a 'Special' in various saloons. A bouncer with powers of arrest. Doc Holliday was deputized at the last minute, only because Virgil handed him a shotgun and said, "Come on."

Three lawmen and one tubercular gambler more handy with a dental pick than a pistol - never mind the shotgun legend wrongly insisted he carried night and day - came face to face with six or more armed, intoxicated, and belligerent rustlers with no love for the law. Offered a chance to surrender their weapons and go about their business, the rustlers chose to fight.

From that day to the present, controversy raged over which side provoked the confrontation. Over who fired the first shot. Whether the rustlers were armed, or shot down in cold blood. Over whether the Earps were lawmen legitimately policing their town or secretly members of the same gang of thieves, out to eliminate a faction threatening to expose them.

His earlier assessment, stop Clanton, still seemed the most viable plan of action. Stopping Clanton would alter history, but he hoped the alteration would nudge things into proper order. He'd need help. Quiet help. More than Julia would be able to provide. Winston's multi-great uncle, if he could be recruited, would do just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: It seems I forgot to include in Chapter 1 the disclaimer tha**t I own none of the characters mentioned** **here-in**. I also want to apologize for the sloppy typing and proof-reading of the previous chapters. I will try to do better…._

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR  
Arizona  
2011

To conserve witch-energy and because transporting luggage by broom-flight was a nightmare best avoided whenever possible, they took Ilsa's jet to Tucson. Cedric accompanied them, disguised as a bass violin.

"You can't just walk through an airport carrying a broom these days," Julia informed Chance as he grunted with the effort of lifting the heavy violin case. "You get some awfully strange looks if you try. People mistake you for a custodian. You don't ever want to approach Airport Security with one. They think it's some kind of assault weapon."

Chance lagged a few steps behind, as much to admire the view as slowed by Cedric's weight. He couldn't imagine anyone mistaking the smart moss green Versace suit clinging to Julia's rounded hips, and Lady Bruno pumps adorning her dainty feet, for a custodian's uniform. But he would have paid every cent to his name and borrowed more to see the look on an Air Marshal's face if Cedric morphed into his equine embodiment when his case was opened for inspection.

The private landing strips at Tucson International Airport offered more privacy to disembarking passengers than the commercial zones did. Just the same, Chance kept a firm grip on the bass violin case while Ilsa's crew off-loaded their overnight bags and stacked them on a baggage cart. From the vibrations coming from the case, Cedric was growing impatient with his camouflage.

Chance and Julia hurried to a waiting pickup and horse trailer, lifted Cedric from the case, and placed him on the trailer's straw-covered floor. Instantly legs, head, tail and mane sprouted, then Cedric's big dapple gray body. His very first act was to let fly with a hoof aimed at Chance's belly. Only hair-trigger reflexes saved Chance from a crippling blow.

"Cedric! Shame on you!" Julia gave her broom a stern finger-poke in the neck. "Behave yourself."

Chance took a long hopeful look from horizon to horizon. "I wonder if there's a glue factory in this town," he muttered. "Do they still make glue from horse hooves?"

.**... ... ... ...**

Driving south and east, they arrived outside Tombstone some two and a half hours after landing. Arizona's bright blue skies were a welcome change from soggy San Francisco. Surplus rainfall had transformed the desert into a lush and verdant landscape. Each saguaro and barrel cactus was fat and juicy with stored moisture. Even this late in the year, wildflowers sprouted wherever seed had fallen into previously barren soil. Mesquite and palo verde trees shimmered with greenery.

Chance pulled over at the top of the last hill before Charleston Road curved and twisted its way into town. From their vantage point, they could pick out two prominent landmarks, the former Cochise County Court house built in 1882, and Schefflein Hall, largest adobe structure still standing in the United States, built a year earlier.

"I stopped in Tombstone on my way home from a mission a few years ago," Chance said. "Kind of a tourist trap, but no worse than Dodge City or Deadwood."

Actually, he found the tours he'd taken of the town and its surroundings fascinating and informative. Underneath its modern trappings, the old town seemed to linger like a never-ending echo. Especially after dark. Strolling the quiet gas-lit streets empty of automobiles and gawking pedestrians, Chance had the eerie sensation he might at any moment turn a corner and find himself face to face with Wyatt Earp, making his rounds.

"I made a pilot flight to 1881," Julia said. "Just to make sure we could do this. The town was much larger then, and busier." She gestured beyond the level stretch - Goose Flats - where Tombstone was built. " Mining operations, buildings of all sorts covered that entire section of hills. The noise was incredible."

Except when the high school band was practicing, now days Tombstone was peaceful. Chance parked the pickup behind one of four small tourist cabins near the corner of First and Allen Streets, stepped from the cab and stretched the kinks from his spine. A breeze whispered through nearby pine trees. A roadrunner uttered his soft _kooo-kooo-kooo_. Somewhere, a dog barked.

He unhitched the trailer, which now appeared to contain nothing more than several inches of soiled straw, some tack, and an old broom. As he carried their bags into the cabin, Chance felt Cedric glaring at him from the corner where Julia propped it. It rustled menacingly whenever Chance came within touching distance of Julia.

"Is that thing house-broken?" he asked, scowling at Cedric.

Hands on hips, Julia rolled her eyes, looked to the heavens and moaned, "Lady, why _me_?"

**... ... ... ...**

Chance was eager to see the old town again. After a late lunch of "buffalo burgers" at a small café, he and Julia set out to explore. He was saddened to discover Virgil Earp's home, lost to an arson fire, no longer stood at First Street and Fremont. Earp homes once occupied three of the four corners, but only Virgil's had survived into the modern era. Knowing the Earp brothers called this small enclave home still made Chance's neck hair prickle.

They turned on Fremont Street, soon reaching the site of the gunfight named for the nearby O.K. Corral. A "reconstruction" of photographer C. S. Fly's studio and boarding house occupied the former vacant lot where much of the shooting took place.

"This area has changed a lot since 1881," Julia said. She gestured at City Hall, a two-story red brick structure with white trim surrounding its arched triple doors. "A meat market and some other businesses stood here. In this universe, City Hall wasn't built until 1882. In the universe we're going to, City Hall was already under construction at the time of the gunfight."

Chance studied his surroundings. "The bullet that killed Wyatt came from the direction of the O.K. Corral's rear entrance. I don't think the City Hall building figures into the shooting, but it's something to consider."

Diagonally opposite the next corner stood Schefflein Hall.

"Put a man good with a rifle on the roof over there," Chance mused, "and you'd have this entire area covered."

"And a witch on the roof of City Hall would double your coverage."

Chance looked at her. "I didn't know you could handle a gun."

"Don't be silly. I use witch-lightning."

They took a cross-street to reach Allen Street, where all the notorious saloons and hotels of the day were located. They paused to study the front entrance to the O.K. Corral, then moved on to Fourth Street where the Earps left Hafford's Corner to confront the Clanton gang. They passed the site of the Occidental, Doc Holliday's preferred hangout, and peered through the doors of the former Oriental, where Wyatt Earp dealt Faro.

At Sixth Street and Allen stood the infamous Bird Cage Theater. This was the cornerstone of Tombstone's red light district. Where ladies of the evening once plied their trade, charging from $25.00 to 25¢, now stood schoolbus barns, city garages, and tourists' parked vehicles.

By the time they traveled the length and breadth of the historic district, it was growing late and cooling off rapidly. The sun dropping in the west touched off another of Arizona's picture postcard sunsets. They stopped beside the town's tiny library, the former railroad depot, to admire the spectacular color and light show.

"We'd better have supper and get some sleep," Julia said. "We'll be leaving at midnight."

**... ... ... ...**

Chance's mental alarm clock woke him at 11:30. Julia came from the second bedroom moments after he finished pulling period trousers on over too-warm red woolen long-johns that already itched. She wore a rich blue traveling suit of the 1880's, and carried a black cape and small carpetbag. Chance finished dressing in a plain white shirt with studs in place of buttons, a vest, and a frock coat.

"How do I look?" he asked.

The look she gave him made the long-johns suddenly feel even hotter.

"Stunning. But don't forget your overcoat. It gets cold flying between worlds."

"Just what I wanted to hear."

Cedric, moved outside at Chance's insistence, greeted Julia with a pleased nicker and accepted the apple she offered. In minutes the broom was saddled and ready for flight. Seeing no escape, Chance vaulted to Cedric's back. He settled himself firmly against Julia's spine for the ride, the only part of this operation he expected to enjoy. She pushed the buddy-strap into his hand, clucked to Cedric and they were off.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

Aching in every limb, Chance slid from Cedric's back and reached to help Julia from the saddle. He couldn't say if they'd been traveling for ten minutes or ten hours, but dawn was painting pale pink brush-strokes on the eastern horizon when Cedric touched down. Visible even at roughly three miles in the crisp, smog-free air, kerosene lamps brightened the windows of Tombstone's early risers. On the hills above the town, where hoisting works and shaft houses operated round the clock, lanterns, torches, and carbide lamps went dark as daylight increased.

A wagon trail meandered off toward the east and before long a horse and buggy arrived, the driver swathed in a hooded black cloak like Julia's. The sorrel horse pulling the buggy nickered a greeting to Cedric, who replied in kind.

Julia and the driver made short work of unharnessing the sorrel. Chance busied himself unsaddling Cedric and pulling handfuls of buffalo grass to rub him down. Soon they had Cedric between the shafts and the caped driver was saddling the sorrel with tack he - or she, Chance couldn't get a good enough look to tell - took from the buggy's boot.

When he loaded Julia's side-saddle, he saw a trunk and two or three carpet bags. Their wardrobe, Chance surmised. Julia's sisterhood saw to everything, including a Winchester rifle propped against the buggy seat.

"Indians?" Chance asked, checking the load.

"Not very likely. Not here, anyway."

Julia and the buggy driver exchanged a few private words. Then the driver mounted the sorrel, and in moments was a black silhouette against the brightening sky.

"I thought Apaches were still on the warpath," Chance said as he handed Julia into the buggy seat. "Or has Geronimo already surrendered in this universe?"

"It's Juh you better worry about," Julia replied as she gathered the reins. She pronounced the name 'Hoo'. "But he won't bother us this close to town."

"You sound pretty confident. I seem to remember reading that Virgil's wife Allie was terrified Indians would creep into town and murder them in their sleep."

"She is. So are a lot of the women. Well, men, too, but of course they won't admit it. So the coven warded the town. Apaches won't come near the place. By the way, do you know how to drive?"

"You mean a horse?"

She gave him a look. "Well, I don't mean a Maserati."

"Umm…no, actually. I never had occasion to learn."

"I'd better teach you. It's going to look pretty strange to see the invalid wife I'm supposed to be holding the ribbons."

"Ribbons?"

"That's what long reins like these are called. Here, let me show you how to hold the ribbons and we'll practice."

"Why don't they just call them reins?"

Driving a horse was as awkward as anything he'd ever tried to master. While he rode with reasonable competence, he soon learned driving was an entirely different matter. It wasn't like on TV or in western movies where the driver leaped to the buckboard seat, grabbed the reins - make that _ribbons_ - slapped them on the horses' rumps, yelled "Heyah!" and took off at full gallop.

Noo-oo-oo, you had to tuck this ribbon under that finger, and that ribbon under this finger and hold the whip with the thumb of the opposite hand while separating the damned ribbons and not drop the stupid whip -

"Dammit!"

If he had to get to the Winchester in a hurry, they'd be dead and scalped before he could untangle his fingers.

"Never lose your temper," Julia admonished. "It makes your broom jittery. Doesn't it, Cedric." She blew it a kiss.

It didn't help that Cedric, already tired from his flight, didn't appreciate being moved left to right and right to left as Chance practiced the proper hand and wrist movements. It balked at every opportunity. Nevertheless, by the time they reached town, Chance felt fairly competent. Even driving the mulish Cedric. He drove to the San Jose House where their room was waiting, and got Julia settled.

"I'll take Cedric next door to the stable, then we'll get breakfast."

"I hope he'll be all right," Julia fussed. "Crabtree's isn't broom-friendly. Make sure they know what to feed him."

Chance paused in the doorway. "What do you feed a…a broom?"

"Oats, a little bran, hay, apples for a treat if they have any. No chocolates or ice cream, no matter how much he begs."

**... ... ... ...**

After seeing to Cedric, then escorting Julia to breakfast, Chance paid a visit to the City Marshal's office. Located above the future Crystal Palace, the marshal's office commanded a view from the balcony that allowed a man with a rifle to cover the length of Allen Street.

Chance introduced himself and gave Deputy U.S. Marshal Virgil Earp his cover story. He had decided to pose as an undercover Treasury agent, seeking a band of counterfeiters "headed West" from Cincinnati. The role would enable him to quickly establish a rapport with the Earps and allow him to remain in close proximity without arousing undue curiosity. Even if Virgil or Wyatt did sense something fishy, neither was likely to possess the connections needed to quickly disprove Chance's identity.

Virgil, round-faced, genial, and built like a silo, told him, "Talk to my brother, Wyatt. If your gang's in the area, they're probably passing their notes through card games. Likkered-up miners and cowhands wouldn't know bad specie from rolling papers. Wyatt would."

Exactly what Chance had hoped to hear. "Any idea where I might find him?"

"Likely home in bed 'til around noon. He works nights. Afternoons, try the Oriental or maybe the Bird Cage. He'll drop by here when he's up. I'll tell him to watch for you."

They shook hands, and Chance left Virgil's office with a pounding heart. He'd just shaken hands with Wyatt Earp's brother. If only Gramps could see him now.

* * *

To determine where the fatal shot might come from, Chance needed to see the O.K. Corral's interior. With nothing but the single newspaper article to go on, finding that location wouldn't be easy.

_Corral_ was a misnomer, he discovered as he let himself through the tall, wide wagon gate. Far from being an open space enclosed by fence rails, the 'corral' consisted of almost a city unto itself within the high walls. To one side was a buggy shed with a loft overhead for drovers to bunk. Opposite was a small cook-shack, then a tack room with tiers of saddle racks, and bridles and harnesses hanging on pegs. Between the tack room and a long row of covered stalls extending almost through to Fremont Street he spotted the blacksmith shop.

It looked like every old west blacksmith shop he'd ever seen on TV or in the movies. The major differences were the smells - coal-fired forge, horse droppings, a singed odor he learned came from applying hot-forged shoes to animal hooves - and the flies. Chance had never seen so many flies.

_CLANG! CLA-A-A-ANG!_

The man hammering on a flat length of curved iron was tall, all muscle, and almost as black as the coal his apprentice fed into the forge. Massive forearms and hands made the hammer and tongs he used on the horseshoe he was shaping look like toys. Despite the chill, great damp patches darkened his shirt beneath his arms. A red bandanna tied around his forehead kept sweat from dripping into his eyes. A sprinkling of white grizzled his short-cropped hair. Except for the hair, he resembled his great nephew so strongly Chance blurted "Winston?" before he could stop himself.

The huge smith glanced up.

"That's me. I know you?"

_Clang-a-clang-a clang. Clang._

He tapped the shoe now as delicately as if playing a tune on a xylophone, then shoved it back into the forge to re-heat. The apprentice pumped the bellows for all he was worth.

"I…umm…think I know a relative of yours."

"Rel-a-tive, huh?"

His head shook slowly, mournfully, Chance thought, like a great wounded buffalo.

"Reckon not. I got no kin left, 'cept a baby sister got lost a long time ago. They all been killed in the War - some fightin', some from sickness, some in the wrong place at the wrong time. Reckon you got the wrong man."

Chance longed to tell the man his lost baby sister not only survived, but bore progeny that preserved the surname well into the 21st century. For the moment, he kept the information to himself.

"Pick up that off-fore," Winston told the apprentice as he removed the shoe from the forge.

Chance studied the horse standing patiently to one side. It was a beautiful animal, black as midnight with the long, slender legs of a racehorse. Lots of thoroughbred there, he thought, but crossed a generation or two back with something tougher. Mustang, maybe. It watched every move the smith made, not with fear but with a keen interest in what was going on.

"Don' you give me no sass, Dick Naylor," Winston said as he applied the still hot shoe on the upraised hoof for a moment, then lifted it off and examined the scorch mark it left.

"That should do it."

He set the hoof gently on the ground, then dropped the shoe in a bucket of water to cool, producing a wisp of steam and a sharp hiss. He pulled a brownish lump from a pocket and palmed it. Dick Naylor daintily nibbled the tidbit, then bobbed his head up and down as if saying Thank you.

Winston glanced at Chance. "Don't it seem funny to you someone'd give a hoss two names, first an' last, just like a man's? But Mista Earp, he says that's what to call him."

Of course, Chance thought. Wyatt's racehorse with the peculiar name. "He's a beautiful animal."

"Fast, too. You get a chance, put some money on him. Now, stranger, what can I do for you? Don't see no hoss need shoein', no broken plow."

"You fought in the Civil War." Chance felt goose bumps rise on his forearms. He was speaking to a man who'd lived through the _War Between the States_.

"Lots of folk did. Even coloreds."

"And fought bravely. You earned a medal or two."

Winston shrugged massive shoulders. "Long time ago. So what? Cain't spend medals for food nor drink. What-chu want, anyway?"

"Can you still shoot like you did in 1864?"

Winston straightened to his full height. Chance took a step back, the better to look him in the eye.

"Not so's you can brag on it. Eyesight ain't the best. 'Sides, I'm a hoss-shoer now, not a fightin' man. Just who are you?"

He started to say, "You can call me Connie," but decided he could push his luck only so far. "Call me Chance. I'm putting together a team. Men who can shoot and keep quiet about it afterward. Men I can depend on - "

"To do what? Chase down Geronimo? No thank you. I seen what Apaches do to white folks - even white folk with skin black as mine. Ever seen what's left after a man's brains been cooked over an open fire? It ain't pretty."

"No," Chance said, suppressing a shudder. "Not Geronimo. Someone maybe even more dangerous. Is there somewhere we can talk in private?"

"Got work to do. You wants to talk so bad, why don'chu come by my cabin after supper tonight."

"I'll do that. And I'll have some information for you about your sister Naomi."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

Leaving the O.K. Corral, Chance made his way to the Birdcage Theater. He and Julia had given the building short shrift on their tour of the town in their own time. Called a museum, the Bird Cage was crammed with an unsorted hodge-podge of, well, junk. Water stains marred the ceiling and walls. Ragged curtains sagged across various apertures leading who knew where. Anything original, such as the once exquisite German lithographs lining the balustrades, was faded, dusty, and worn. Worse, the structure was rigged to simulate "ghostly" activity - apparitions, odors, floating orbs and the like - to spook visiting tourists.

"The ghost who used to live here moved to the court house," Julia had said.

"How do you know?"

"He told me so."

In his own time, the building stood alone at Allen and Sixth Street. Now other small businesses bracketed it. Arched doorways, Chance surmised, were common architectural features of the times. Like City Hall, the Bird Cage boasted three.

Inside, every gaming table gleamed with polish. Liquor bottles containing an array of different liquids glittered like jewels. The bar mirror warmed the barroom and theater floor with reflected light. Fresh and new, the circus performers depicted in the lithographs seemed to leap and dance, their colors a vivid kaleidoscope of red, yellow, blue and green

Leaning an elbow on the elaborate bar, nursing a shotglass of Old Overholt, Chance studied the private rooms - suspended overhead like a row of bird cages - that inspired the theater's name. He had to know what standing in one felt like.

"Price of the room includes your fav'rite p'ison," the bartender said, handing Chance a bottle. "$10 more and you get a lady, too. Little early, but I can prob'ly find someone to keep you company, you not bein' too partic'lar."

"Just the bottle for now."

Sometimes busy, sometimes not so much, the Birdcage never closed its doors. A single bartender served the occasional off-shift minor or merchant who wandered in for a drink or hand or two of poker. This time of day, no entertainment was offered, but someone had dropped a silver dollar in the elaborately carved Polyphon music box still standing in the lobby in his own time. The enormous disc, larger than the largest pizza Chance had ever seen, rotated majestically, filling the theater with the mellow notes of "Beautiful Dreamer".

On stage, an act featuring two fiddlers and a back drop of painted flames was preparing for a dress rehearsal. He wished he could see Lizette the Flying Nymph perform. Suspended from the highest crossbeam, her ribbon-trimmed trapeze stirred languidly in a stray air current.

He crossed the deserted main floor to the staircase, pausing to study the life-size painting of belly dancer "Little Egypt" mounted on the wall. Although too full-bodied to be considered ideal in the 21st century, for her time Little Egypt was one sexy number. Chance lifted his shotglass in salute.

The staircase to the private rooms was very narrow and steep, and closed to the public in Chance's time. Even recently build, it creaked and groaned as if in pain when he climbed it. The flimsy doors to the boxes had no keys. A hook-and-eye latch on the inside offered some assurance against interruption.

From above, Chance had an excellent view of the barroom and theater below, and the "cages" opposite his. Crimson velvet drapes which could be closed for privacy hung at the front of each tiny box. Like the one in which he stood, each contained a settee which unfolded into a smallish cot, two folding chairs in case someone wanted to actually watch the on-stage performance, a small stand holding a pitcher and basin, and a spittoon. All the comforts of home, Chance mused.

Behind him, the staircase groaned. As Chance glanced over his shoulder, a tall, black-clad figure stepped into the room.

"Name's Earp. Heard someone was looking for me. That you?"

Hearing Wyatt Earp say his name made Chance's mouth go dry. He was standing face to face with the most famous lawman of all time. "Christopher Chance," he managed, reaching for his forged credentials. "U.S. Department of the Treasury."

Earp measured Chance's garb and stance and gaze with eyes as direct and piercing as Chance's own. After a moment, he nodded. He gave the documents a cursory glance, then extended his hand.

"Happy to meet you. Virge said you were trailing some kind of counterfeiting ring?"

**... ... ... ...**

"A sporting man like yourself," Chance concluded after giving Wyatt the same basic story he'd told Virgil, "handles large amounts of currency. I'd like you to keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if you run across any fake bills and who's passing them. Pass any interesting rumors my way. I don't want word to spread that I'm here - it might scare the gang off. I thought you'd know who else we might trust to be on alert."

"I can do that. You've warned the banks?"

Chance shook his head. "Didn't want to start a panic."

Earp smiled tightly. "I get your drift."

Chance handed Earp a business card embossed with the Treasury Department seal and his name. "I'm staying at the San Jose House - posing as a schoolmaster searching for a healthier climate for my wife."

Earp's smile warmed. "Best not advertise yourself overmuch. As many young'ns as this town's producing, you might find yourself teaching - "

Below, fiddles abruptly squawked forth a tune Chance eventually identified as Saint Saëns' _Danse Macabre_. Both men's attention shifted to the stage where a masked character in a red devil's costume cavorted and capered. Watching the performance, neither spoke.

The fiddle music reached a crescendo, the red-clad figure whirled maniacally, then dropped to the stage floor in a Dallas Cheerleaders split that made Chance wince even as he admired the long, shapely legs.

He joined in the smattering of applause when the dancer whipped off her devil's mask. He froze when he saw the dark curling hair, the striking features he knew only too well.

"Ilsa?"

Incredulous, Chance gripped the balustrade with both hands as he stared down at the woman gazing directly at him, giving him a dazzling smile.

"Who is she?" Chance asked.

"Josie Marcus. My woman," Wyatt said, sounding as possessive as if he were showing off Dick Naylor.

Chance snapped his attention back to the stage. Blinked to clear his vision. He was still seeing things. Although the costume hadn't changed, the woman wearing it was not who he'd seen on the stage moments ago. The hair was far longer, too straight, more brunette than black. The features weren't even close.

"Who'd you think?" Wyatt asked, giving him a searching look.

"For a moment she looked like…someone I…used to know."

"She's a fine little actress. Can't just anyone make the audience believe she's whoever she pretends to be. She's thinking of starting her own touring company. Like Lotta Crabtree's. If you're interested you could buy in for a thousand or so. Like to meet her?"

"Umm…sure." As long as she doesn't morph back into Ilsa. What in hell had made him think Josie was Ilsa Pucci?

Skirting tables set with four or five chairs, and six or eight rows of benches placed where the orchestra pit would be had the Bird Cage possessed one, Chance accompanied Wyatt to the edge of the stage. Above, the woman conferred with the fiddlers. From their aggrieved expressions, more likely berated them, Chance thought.

"Josie," Wyatt said. His voice was little louder than a murmur, but she heard it, turned, and smiled.

Not Ilsa.

"Hello, Darling," Josephine Marcus said. "I'll just be another minute."

"That means twenty," Wyatt said. "Let's go get a beer."

* * *

Across town, the Earp wives were gathered in Allie's sitting room, sipping Allie's notorious Lemonade Punch. Gin, spiked with lemonade. Mattie had her shoes off and her eyes closed. Besse stubbed out a Spanish cigarillo and rummaged in her reticule for another. She snapped her fingers, producing a tiny green flame, and lit up.

"You have to tell him, Mattie," Louisa Earp said. Lou was darning a sock the mundane way, with a needle and a strand of yarn. "He'll guess anyhow, with you being sick every morning."

Lou had seen Mattie, never an early riser, making a crack-of-dawn dash from her kitchen porch to the outhouse nearly every morning the past several days.

Mattie twisted ringless fingers together. "No he won't. He sleeps like the dead 'til almost noon. He only comes home to sleep and change clothes. Then he goes out again. Back to that…slut."

Mattie was careful not to say 'whore'. Not that her common law sisters-in-law sister witches were unduly sensitive about the word. The fact remained they all at one time or another had earned their living on their backs. Even if Allie did refuse to own up.

At least, Mattie brooded, none of them had resorted to the black arts like Josephine Marcus did.

"He'll think I'm sayin' it to keep him from leavin' me for _her_. I think I'll just kill myself, is all. Me and the baby both. Then it won't matter any more."

"You know you don't mean that," Lou said. She knelt in front of Mattie and grasped her hands. "Wyatt will come around. Think of it, Mattie, you're the first of all of us to bring the next generation of Earps into the world. Morg and I have been trying for the longest time - "

"You don't have to tell us," Besse Earp interrupted. "Jim and me hear you caterwaulin' all the way down to our place every time you and Morg take a notion to 'try'. You need to cast a silencing spell!" Besse gave a very witchy cackle.

Blushing carnation pink, Lou cried, "That is _not_ true!"

"Well, it isn't _me_ caterwauling," Mattie said. "Wyatt hasn't touched me since this happened." She glared at the baby-bump just starting to round her abdomen. "Three months, eleven days, and about six hours ago. Wish he'd-a left me alone. He was prob'ly pretendin' it was _her_."

Besse blew a smoke ring and watched it drift toward the ceiling. "I know it ain't Allie I've been hearing," she said. "She's so scared some half-nekked 'Pache brave'll sneak in one night and scalp her, she got Virge to nail their bedroom window shut."

Everyone laughed.

"Where is Allie, by the way?" Lou asked. "She's the one who called this meeting."

"She went to fetch that visiting sister - Julia something. She's staying at the San Jose House," Besse said. "Takes Allie forever to walk anywhere with those short little…ahem…legs of hers." The Earp women giggled. In polite society, one said 'limbs'.

"Whoa! The San Jose House?" Lou went to the nearest window and peeked out. "That's one hoity-toity establishment. What do you suppose she wants with us? Oops, I guess we're about to find out. Here they come now - and oh, my stars! She's got a riding broom! A big dapple gray."

First Allie, then Julia slipped from Cedric's high back. Julia looped Cedric's reins over the hitch rail beside Allie's house. Although nothing fancy, the house looked well tended and homey. Colorful flowers bloomed in several Mexican pots lining a foot-path beside the house. Lace curtains graced the windows.

"Tell that big lummox he better not eat me petunias," Allie said, casting Cedric a warning glare.

"He wouldn't dream of it," Julia promised. She followed Allie along the foot-path to the front porch and through the front door.

"These are me sisters-in-law," Allie said. "That's Besse, Jim's wife. Mattie, Wyatt's wife. Lou, Morg's wife. I'm Virgil's wife, as you already know."

"Merry meet," the Earp women chorused.

"Merry meet," Julia returned.

"Girls, this here is Julia Hastings. She's kin to Maggie Shaw. She has something she wants to tell us. Is there any punch left?"

**…. …. …. ….**

"So," Julia said, "that's the story, strange as it may seem." She sipped the last of the plain lemonade Allie had provided after one swallow of the potent punch left Julia choking and spluttering. "If I can answer any questions, please ask them."

The Earp women all exchanged troubled glances, but no one said a word. Julia's heart sank. I've lost them, she thought. And without their support, there's no telling what will happen. Christopher and I can't do this alone.

"Let me get this straight," Allie said finally. "You're from the future. Not our future, the future of some other universe?"

"Correct."

"And you're sayin' that universe is in danger because Wyatt Earp gets what's comin' to him here and not there?"

Mattie jumped to her feet. She wasn't tall, but she towered over diminutive Allie. "You take that back! If it weren't for Wyatt we'd all be - "

"A long ways away from here!" Allie glared at her sister-in-law. "He's always takin' off for some new place and draggin' my Virge along with him. We no more'n get a home set up then he says move an' off we go."

"Allie," Lou said.

"And you!" Allie rounded on Lou. "You'll find out one day. He'll get Morg killed, you mark me words!"

"Ladies," Julia said, "please. You mustn't let this turn into a family squabble. We have to all work together to save Mattie's husband and prevent a far greater catastrophe."

"Save him for what?" Mattie said. "So he can run off with Josie Marcus? I'd as soon see him dead."

"Mattie!"

"She'd right about Josie Marcus," Besse said. "Her conniving has gone on long enough. We've got to stop her before she sets her sights on any more of our men." She stubbed out her cigarillo. "First things first. I think we all understand what needs to be done, even if we don't necessarily get the wha-da-ya call it? Physics? We'll convene the coven. Meanwhile, Julia, tell your man we'll do what we can to help. And bring him by. We'd all like to meet him."

* * *

"I would have sworn it was Ilsa on that stage," Chance told Julia later that day. "I turned away for maybe two seconds. When I looked back, it was someone I'd never seen before."

"The Earp wives warned me about Josie Marcus," Julia said, "but that's frightening. I can do small illusion spells to make myself blend in and go unnoticed, but plucking another person's appearance out of thin air - or even scarier, your thoughts - takes more than a simple spell. A lot more. Someone that powerful is dangerous."

"And she's got Wyatt Earp wrapped around her dainty little finger."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

It was mid-afternoon when Wyatt Earp let himself into the small but snug cottage occupying the corner across from Virgil's house. He was hungry, but the restaurants uptown all looked crowded, and the 'free lunch' platters saloons offered held nothing appealing. He'd find something kept warm for him on the cookstove at home, although he didn't relish yet another wrangle with Mattie. Lately she was grouchy as bear with a sore tail.

He'd picked up a cool $700 at the Faro table last night. Maybe his luck would hold and Mattie would be asleep.

Only a few more weeks, he reminded himself. She wanted to visit her sister in Denver for Thanksgiving. He'd escort her there and return to Tombstone. Alone.

His conscience gave him a pitchfork jab. Not abandon her, he asserted. He'd make sure she lived well until she found another man to look after her. But he was through. He and Josie would start life anew, in Frisco or maybe even New York City.

Mattie, however, was up and dressed. She wore her yellow dress, his favorite once, when those things mattered. Made fresh coffee, too. Something was in the wind. Wyatt was pretty sure he wouldn't like it.

**…. …. …. ….**

"You're sure of this?" he asked when Mattie finished speaking.

"As sure as I can be." Her fingers smoothed the yellow fabric over a definite swelling. "I thought you'd want to know before you…left for good."

Damn that sixth sense of hers, Wyatt thought. He drained his coffee mug and placed it on the table. A different time, a different place, a different woman and he would have rejoiced at the news. Now….

Now he must simply endure.

Mattie took a deep breath. "One thing," she said, sounding as determined as he'd ever heard her. "I won't have my child raised by a father who's never home. Who whores with other women."

Wyatt was about to remind her she was lucky to have a roof over her head, that she had no say-so over his coming and going, when he realized that now, she did. She _owned_ him. Or rather, the son or daughter growing in her belly did.

"That will change," he said.

Mattie shoved back her chair and leaped to her feet. "I don't know if I even want you any more, you hear me? You've treated me like dirt ever since _she_ came to town. Now you say you'll drop her - just like that?" She snapped her fingers. A tiny blue spark flared.

He hadn't exactly meant _just like that_, but it was probably for the best. "That's what I'm saying. You have my word."

**…. …. …. ….**

Mattie stared forlornly through the window at the passing teams and wagons. The cottage felt as empty as ever. After eating, Wyatt had gone back uptown. He'd given her his word. She would far rather he'd given her his love.

* * *

Not long after dark, Chance knocked on the door of the adobe cabin Mose Winston lived in on the far side of Chinatown. It opened instantly, silhouetting the big man standing on the threshold against the light of a kerosene lamp.

"Tell me what you know of Naomi," Winston said by way of greeting.

"I know she never stops searching for you," Chance said. "I don't know if you'll find each other. I don't know where she lives now, but she'll die in Philadelphia in 1899. If you want to look for her, that's where to start."

"That's crazy talk!" Winston's fists doubled. "You some kinda confidence man? You tryin' to sell me information? Do it look like I got me a gold mine hidden away so's I can pay for information that don't mean nothin'? Why don-chu haul your white ass on outta here before I lose my patience."

Once again Chance produced his forged papers. "I'm not selling anything, Mr. Winston. I work for the U.S. government - of the year 2011. Your great great nephew is my associate. I hoped I might persuade you to help me."

"Man, you truly is crazy. You makin' all this up. You think I never heard of H. G. Wells?"

H. G. Wells? The man was far from as ignorant as he liked to pretend. Or more likely, must pretend. It was 1881, after all. Not only that, he liked science fiction - or whatever it was called in this era.

"Good. Then you're not unfamiliar with the concept of time travel. Wells wasn't - isn't - too far off the mark with his stories. I'm not allowed to explain everything, but I can tell you this: I'm here to prevent a shooting that will cause very serious repercussions in the future that I come from. My actions, my very presence here, must be kept absolutely confidential. Your nephew believes you can be trusted." Chance removed a blow-up of the photograph Lavern Winston carried from his credentials. "He sent you this."

Mose Winston studied the photo for several moments. Then he said, "You best come inside and start from the beginning."

** …. …. …. ...  
**

Winston lifted the tin coffee pot from the cookstove, and flashed white teeth when Chance held his hand over the top of his cup. He'd matched the blacksmith cup for cup for the better part of an hour.

"That's enough for me. I'll be lucky to find my way back to the San Jose House." He raised the cup in salute, and downed the last of the potent brew, Arbuckle's Coffee laced with - to Chance's amazement - Bacardi rum. Even the label was almost the same as in his own time, the little black bat perhaps somewhat chubbier.

"Wish I could help you," Winston said as he reclaimed the chair on the opposite side of the table from Chance. "I can't shoot like that no more. But I know a man might be just what you're lookin' for. Goes by the handle Apache Pete."

"He's Indian?"

"Not by birth. Raiders killed his folks when he was about three, but took him to one-a their squaws to raise. He was thirteen when the army got him back. By then he was all Apache - or worse."

"How did you run across him?"

Winston grinned. "I'm the sol'jer who took his knife away before he planted it between my ribs, and swatted him half-way into next week for tryin'. When it turned out he didn't have no kin left alive, I seen him sent off to mission school for civilizin'. For all the good it did. Cost me a month's pay for his room an' board, and the first thing he done was run off. After takin' a butcher knife to one-a the older kids for stealin' the medicine bag his 'Pache mama made him."

"So you went after him?"

"Not then. Not him special. No sense throwin' good money after bad. When I mustered out, I drifted some back toward home, hopin' I might run across my little sister. Fetched up in Ft. Sill, broke and hungry. Judge Parker was lookin' for men to clean up the Western District of the Arkansas. He put out a call for the toughest, meanest _hombres_ he could find, pinned tin stars on their chests and sent 'em out to bring in every bank robber, bushwhacker, and scalawag they could lay hands on - alive if they could, dead if they couldn't. I signed up."

Chance uttered a low whistle. "You were one of Parker's Men? _Hanging_ Judge Parker?"

"They ain't but one."

Here came the goose bumps again. Of the many federal justices in those days, Gramps had once told him, Wyatt Earp admired Judge Isaac Parker most of all.

Presiding over the Federal District Court with jurisdiction over the Indian Territories that ultimately became Oklahoma, Hanging Judge Parker earned his sobriquet by building a gallows designed to execute a dozen condemned outlaws in a single "necktie party". His record was six. "Would've been eight," Gramps had said with a regretful sigh, "but one got commuted. The other got shot trying to escape."

"Judge Parker sent a dozen of us down to clean out Sam Starr's hide-out," Winston continued. "Place was a snake den of desperados. We rode in shooting, and damn near got cut to pieces our own selves. Someone on a hill 800 yards away was pickin' us off like flies."

Winston sipped his Arbuckle's.

"We got a man behind him with orders to take him alive. Guess who we found."

"Apache Pete?"

"One and the same. Some of the boys wanted to string him up right there, 'thout waitin' for Judge Parker's gavel. Killin' in a fair fight was one thing, but lynchin a man already captured wasn't what we was paid to do. We put him and a half-dozen others in the Black Maria* and headed for Ft. Sill.

"Wasn't 'til we camped for the night that me and Pete figgered out who each other was. We had us a confab…. Wasn't supposed to do that, but I guess I got to feelin' sorry for the little bastard. I tol' him if he gave me his word to ride on outta the Territories, stay the hell out, and find a way to earn an honest living, I'd find a way to keep him from danglin' at the end of a noose."

"He agreed? You trusted him?"

"He agreed. An Apache gives his word, you can stake your life on it, so I trusted him. Year or two later, I fetched up here. One-a the Earps brung me that racehoss you seen at my smithy for new shoes. Guess who was set to ride it."

"Apache Pete?"

"One and the same. 'Paches ain't the most carin' of hossflesh. They'll ride their ponies to death, and eat the carcasses for supper. But Pete spent some time with the Commanches. There ain't no better hossmen this side of them Russian Cossacks. And they take damn good care of their hosses."

"Cossacks?"

"Seen 'em oncet, riding in that Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show. Thing is, this little runt can still knock out a squirrel's eye at 500 yards with a Winchester. If you needs your man taken out quiet-like, he ain't forgot how to use a Bowie knife or a bow and arrow." Winston got up, refilled his cup. "What he knows about convincin' close-mouthed folk to talk would give Geronimo hisself the heebee-jeebees."

"His family name doesn't happen to be Caruso, does it?" he asked, recalling Guerrero's multi-great uncle he'd encountered in St. Paul.

"D'know. Don't reckon he does, either."

Chance placed his cup on the table and stood. "Where do I find him?"

"Don't rightly know where he holes up at night. Durin' the day, try the race track. I see him, I'll tell him to find you."

The anticipatory gleam in Winston's eye made Chance hope he found Apache Pete before Apache Pete found him.

* * *

Although early by 21st Century standards when Chance returned to his rooming house, he found the parlor empty but for the landlady busy with her knitting, and her cat, eying the yarn as if the twitching strand were alive.

Continuing down the hall, he concluded several boarders had turned in for the night. From the snores rumbling behind closed doors, they already slept soundly.

Passing a door marked LADIES' ABLUTIONS, he heard the sound of splashing. When he opened the door to their room, Julia wasn't there. Must be her in Ladies' Ablutions, he guessed. Gents had no ablutions. They were expected to shave in their rooms, or visit bath and barbering establishments. He cleaned up with water from the pitcher and bowl on the dresser.

The water's fresh-from-the-Arctic temperature did little to stop mental images of Julia in a huge cast iron bathtub from presenting a slide show in his imagination. Her frizzy red hair springing loose from the Psyche knot on top of her head. One shapely leg extended above the tub, then drawn back as she soaped her toes. The shimmer of water cascading from her as she stood and reached for a towel. Hell, he was getting hard just thinking about her. His hands kept wanting to close on her flesh. His mouth hungered to taste hers again. He wondered if she were thinking similar thoughts about him. Should he go back and tap on the door? Offer to scrub her back?

But no. She'd closed him out last night. She had every right to, he supposed, but that didn't make it sting any less.

He opened the carpetbag an earlier inspection told him held period clothing intended for him. He found spare trousers and shirts, fresh collars and cuffs, cotton drawers - thank God! The woolen union-suit he'd worn was warm, but the itchy fabric was maddening. He now knew a secret no old west historian had ever figured out: liquor didn't cause all those saloon brawls - intolerable underwear did. He'd sooner freeze than itch.

At the bottom he found a red and gray striped robe - more woo l- and a red flannel something-or-other he decided must be a night-shirt. He slipped it on. It was chilly enough the robe - dressing gown, some mental thesaurus prompted - would feel good and the flannel would provide a buffer between skin and wool. Between his body and Julia's.

He wished he'd bought a bottle of Old Overholt before returning to their room. Dress again? Go up to Allen Street, see Tombstone as it really was after dark? Naaah, too much trouble. He felt jet-lagged. Make that broom-lagged. He needed sleep.

He eyed the bed. Although a double, and quite generous for the times, it was way too small. With Julia curled up beside him in it, the last thing he'd want to do was sleep.

** …. …. …. ...  
**

Down the hall, Julia's thoughts as she soaked in the cast iron tub did in fact center on Christopher Chance, but were far from erotic imaginings.

True she was mulling over the necessity of sharing a bed with her sexy, macho bodyguard. The problem was, the idea terrified her.

After her ritual deflowering, the idea of having sex left her feeling cold. Gray. Shriveled. Except when she thought of making love with Christopher. Then she felt like a blossom opening its petals to the sun. Until she reminded herself how unskilled she was.

She'd read all the books telling how to please a man, how to make the most of making love. Not to mention countless steamy romance novels. But no amount of reading took the place of hands-on experience, and she had practically none. Christopher had probably slept with dozens of beautiful, sophisticated, highly skilled women besides Ilsa Pucci. When he saw how inexperienced she was, he'd think she was boring. Dull. Inept. And he'd be right.

** …. …. …. ...  
**

Grumbling under his breath, Chance carried one of the pillows from the bed and a spare blanket he found in the wardrobe over to the settee. As he finished arranging them, Julia came through the door, all pink and fragrant from her bath.

"What's all this" She gestured at the pillow and blanket.

"The bed's yours," Chance said, trying not to sound grumpy. "I…need more room."

"You'll be miserable on that settee."

He shrugged.

"I thought we were posing as a married couple. If we don't share the bed, the maid will wonder why."

"You're an invalid, remember? Too fragile for me to enjoy my husband's prerogatives. Or we had a fight."

Julia moved a few steps closer. "You're making me feel very undesirable."

_Take a look below my waistline. You'll change your mind. _"Julia…."

"Are you angry I wouldn't sleep with you last night?"

"No."

"Yes you are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"Then why don't you kiss me?"

* * *

*Author's note: a "Black Maria" is a horse-drawn prison wagon


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The chapter you're expecting to find here is a little too warm for a T rating. Please forgive the awkward break and continue on to Chapter 9. Or…

Chapter 8 will soon be posted separately, for MATURE EYES ONLY as "Be Careful what you Witch For"


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

A short, squat, early afternoon shadow imitated Wyatt Earp's stride the following day as he climbed the porch steps to Josephine Marcus' house. Sixth Street wasn't the best location, he mused, considering the red light district was only a stone's throw down the block. Not that it mattered now. He would never live here, now.

In Josie's bedroom, he watched her watch him in the vanity mirror as she dragged a hairbrush through her long, brunette hair. Another time, he would be brushing it for her. Another time, he'd be thinking about what he'd do when he got her out of that red velvet dressing gown and the silken garments he knew she wore under it. Another time.

"There's no kind way to put this," he said. "I'm going back to Mattie. Try to make things right."

Josie stopped brushing her hair. "That wasn't funny."

"It wasn't meant to be." He reached for the doorknob.

"Do you know what you're throwing away?"

"I think I do."

Mattie might lack Josie's sparkling wit, her delightful unpredictability, her way of making a man so eager to bed her, he lost his common sense, but she was good enough for him for several years. He'd found her desirable once. He might again. What mattered now was the child she carried - his child - and to an Earp, family was everything.

"I was under the impression you and I had a future together. You seemed quite eager to demonstrate it in my bed only night before last. So enlighten me, Wyatt. What brought on this sudden decision?"

Wyatt had considered any number of ways of telling Josie, from blurting the truth to offering no explanation whatsoever, and every possible nuance in between. He knew from experience explanations only produced more ammunition for Josie to shoot down his arguments.

She'd be furious no matter what he said. Her icy calm baffled him, and if he were honest, frightened him a little. While he refused to credence rumors - and Allie's outright assertion - that Josie dabbled in black magic, a tiny fragment of self-preservation kept asking what retribution she would inflict when she realized he was gone for good.

Gut instinct warned him - screamed at him - to keep Mattie's pregnancy a secret, at least until he arranged to move her safely beyond Josie's clutches.

"Family," he finally said. "Family matters. Not because I don't still want you." Josie could smell a lie. This was close enough to pass for truth.

She spun about to face him. "You really are a fool. You'd let that wizened little mick Allie or that prune-faced Besse dictate who you sleep with?"

"You might have taken more pains to win them over."

His sisters-in-law, except for Lou, were rather plain and no longer in their prime. They resented Josie's youth and beauty even before she lured him away from Mattie, whom they considered one of their own.

"And you could tell them - and those muddle-headed brothers of yours - to mind their own business!"

That was the wrong argument to pursue. Wyatt opened the bedroom door.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Josie was on her feet, her hands busy with the fastenings of her gown. In a moment it lay at her feet, revealing the dainty underthings she wore.

Each time she did that, it was like the first time he saw her unclothed. He went hot, and hard. His lungs couldn't take in enough air. Her hands moved again and the corset cover fell away, exposing the rising swell of her breasts where a golden amulet glinted. A twist and the single petticoat vanished. One long, slim leg clad in the finest of sheer stockings moved a half-step toward him.

"Do you really want to give all this up?"

"If I had a choice," Wyatt heard himself say, "I wouldn't."

Josie looked down, as if deep in thought. Picked up the amulet. Light flashed across the room between them. "Speak the truth, Wyatt Earp. Why are you leaving me?"

The next thing Wyatt remembered, he was striding down Fremont street, thankful he managed to end things with Josie without having to duck flung crockery, but with the oddest urge driving him to hurry home. To Mattie and their baby.

** …. …. …. ...  
**

Josie hurled her hairbrush across the room. It hit the wall so hard the ivory handle shattered. Her favorite hairbrush! Muttering, she spelled it back together.

So Mattie had let herself get pregnant. Of all the stupid things to do. Although it was less likely an accident than a calculated scheme to bind Wyatt to her as no Wiccan spell ever could.

Was it even Wyatt's? She thought he'd abandoned Mattie's bed long ago.

Probably it was, even though none of the Earp men seemed especially virile. But maybe none of their wives chose to take on the extra burden of Motherhood. She herself used any means necessary to avoid pregnancy. She kept the ingredients for a never-fail abortive on hand at all times, in case her prevention spells weakened. Sperm were annoyingly persistent little imps when set free.

And with that thought came the solution to her problems. Or at least one of them.

She stood on a step-stool to retrieve a lead crystal bowl from the topmost shelf in the china cabinet. Light shining through a gap in the kitchen curtains fractured into rainbows as it struck the bowl's intricate facets.

She poured water from an earthen jug into the bowl, then removed a velvet pouch tucked into a corner of her silverware chest. From the pouch she removed an inch long quartz shard, sharper than Toledo steel.

She pricked the tip of her ring finger and watched a glistening bead of blood form. Before it dripped, she held her finger over the crystal bowl.

_"Show the truth / Reveal to me / What the future / Comes to be."_

What she saw made her gasp. "We'll just see about that!"

Everything was fine until those two from the future showed up and started poking their noses in.

Oh, she knew they were from the future. She didn't practice the black arts for nothing. But what did they want? The very fact that they could travel through time made them more than mere nuisances, it made them dangerous. A serious threat to her carefully laid-out plans.

She had some very big plans for herself and Wyatt Earp. Soon his name would be a household word, like Lotta Crabtree or Edwin Booth. She'd had Wyatt almost where she wanted him, ready to dump the mousy little housefrau he lived with. Ready to leave this dusty, noisy, _boring_ town and join the _bon vivants_ of the theatrical world. Big cities. Electric lights! Champagne - Well, she had to admit, for a town in the middle of nowhere, Tombstone's liquid refreshments were first class. The dining equaled any to be found in, say, Chicago.

The road show featuring Wyatt Earp-and starring herself, of course-would make Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show look like a dog-and-pony act. She meant to cash in on every last dime it generated. Be damned if she'd let a baby or butt-inskies from the future stand in her way.

She needed to know what the future witch - Julia? - had in mind. The man accompanying her appeared harmless enough. His aura revealed nothing magical, just some strong protective instincts. Probably he was pretty decent in bed, but really nothing more than Julia's bodyguard. How tough could he be, coming from a time when the Indians were quelled and bare-knuckle fighting was outlawed.

She doubted Julia would be very forthcoming if questioned. But Josie didn't need cooperation. She needed a drop or two of her blood. First, however, she had to run an errand uptown.

* * *

Chance had spent the morning looking over the town. Familiarizing himself with streets and alleyways. Julia was off visiting Maggie Shaw, with whom she meant to go shopping. Modern shoemakers and glove factories couldn't match the workmanship of 19th century cobblers and glovers, Julia informed him. She meant to purchase several pairs of each.

"How will you get them home?" Chance had asked. "I thought Cedric couldn't carry luggage."

"Oh, don't worry about that. They'll go into storage, and be 'found' a few days after we return home."

"Won't they be all dried out and crumbly?"

"Not if they're enchanted properly."

He wasn't happy about letting her go wandering around town without him, but she insisted she'd be fine and would meet him at the San Jose House for their noon meal. Now she wasn't here. He looked for a note, not for the first time damning the lack of cell phones.

"Should've had her conjure some kind of communication device," he muttered.

No note. Nothing looked disturbed but he sensed an odd emptiness that was more than physical, as if some vital element was missing. Great. The last thing he needed was some kind of nesting instinct kicking in. To counteract it, he told himself he was annoyed. It was too soon to worry.

She's just lost track of time. Women were never punctual. Especially red-heads. He looked around for something to read while he waited. Nothing. He'd seen a day-old _Tombstone Epitaph _in the parlor earlier. He'd go get that, and ask their landlady to keep a couple of plates warm for them.

When Julie was twenty minutes late, he threw the paper aside and began to pace. The last time she disappeared, she was gone for a year. If she did it again, he'd be stranded here, wrong time, wrong universe. Not much chance Cedric would let him thumb a ride home.

After another ten minutes he scribbled a note. _I was here. Where are you? Back in 30 minutes. WAIT HERE. Landlady saving lunch._ He noted the time and initialed it CC.

Where to look, he wondered. While Tombstone was not so immense it precluded running into her by sheer luck, street and pedestrian traffic made searching for a single individual anything but simple. Probably half the women in town wore blue hats with feathers like the one she patted and primped into place this morning. Zeroing in on hers was on a par with winning the lottery. He decided to walk to Maggie Shaw's house.

"She left here more than an hour ago," Maggie told him. "She meant to stop by Miss Cashman's to deliver some pickles I wanted Nellie to sample. Try the Russ House."

"Dammit," Chance grumbled. "I knew I shouldn't have let her go traipsing off on her own." And she knew better. She was the one who insisted she needed a bodyguard because ladies don't go anywhere unescorted.

Nellie Cashman hadn't seen her. "Are you sure she meant to come here?"

"Maggie Shaw sent over some pickles. When she shows up, would you remind her she was supposed to meet me for luncheon?"

"Of course."

Chance was almost out the door when one of Nellie's boarders said, "Hold on, I think I might have seen your gal. Pretty thing, about this tall?" He measured shoulder height on his hound's tooth check suit. "Flame red hair under a blue hat."

"Sounds right. Where'd you see her?

"She got in that Josephine Marcus' buggy and they headed out toward Charleston."

"Much obliged."

What in hell was Julia up to? Charleston was a rough-and-tumble village grown up around the ore-processing mills built above the San Pedro River. Only a short ride from the Clanton ranch, Charleston saw far more of the outlaws than Tombstone did. Julia had no business going there, especially without him.

Or with Josephine Marcus. Josie was no one to casually socialize with. Julia knew that. Then again, he couldn't be sure it was Julia the man saw riding with Josie. Now seriously worried, he decided to try their room again.

Still no sign of her. The note he'd left looked untouched. He left another. _Had tip you were seen riding with J Marcus. What's up? WAIT HERE FOR ME. CC._

As Chance was about to head to the stable and try to saddle Cedric without getting kicked or bitten, someone pounded on the door.

* * *

Not many blocks away, Mattie was brushing out her hair. She had shampooed it and put it up in rags so it would curl. Wyatt used to like running his fingers through her curls. She'd buffed her fingernails, and was thinking about doing the same to her toenails when she heard a knock at the door. She froze.

The Earp women always just walked in. Someone knocking was a rare occurrence. She peered out from behind a curtain before answering.

The boy in the blue and crimson messenger's uniform was even more mystifying. She certainly wasn't expecting a delivery, and any news so urgent it came by messenger could only be bad.

"You Missus Earp?" the boy asked when she finally edged the door open a crack.

"Umm…yes." Josephine Marcus had been using Wyatt's name of late. Maybe the package he held was meant for her.

"This is for you. Delivery charge already paid." He thrust the box into her hands, tipped his cap, and trotted back to the small blue and crimson cart he'd left on the side of the street.

Well, if it was meant for Josephine, too bad, Mattie thought. It's mine now.

The box was wrapped in white tissue and tied with a green satin ribbon long enough she could save it to wear in her hair. The tag read _Mattie. Sweets for my Sweet. Wyatt._

"Ooooh." Not Josephine, but Mattie. Although _Love, Wyatt,_ would have been even better, this was far, far more than she had hoped for.

The bonbons came from Europa Confectioner's Shoppe, Tombstone's most expensive chocolatier. Mattie nibbled one, and then another. And then another. By the time mid-afternoon came and Wyatt might come home for a meal, every last one was gone. He'd think she was such a pig.

She hid the box. If he did come home, she'd pretend it hadn't arrived yet.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** In this chapter, we meet Apache Pete. As Winston has told Chance, Pete was taken by raiders as a child just learning to talk, and raised by Apaches. Recovered by the Buffalo Soldiers, he was forced to relearn English after 10 years speaking only Apache, with some border Spanish and Anglo thrown in._

_My attempt to create the speech of someone with this background has unfortunately resulted in Pete sounding too much like Tonto (as in _The Lone Ranger_) for my liking, but it will have to do._

N'deen _is a Western Apache word meaning "adult male". The first 'N' is so softly pronounced it is difficult for the untrained ear to detect. The final 'n' almost sounds like 'nh'. The middle 'ee' is more heavily stressed than either the first or final 'n'. When reading, hear the word as 'dEEnh'._

* * *

A muffled voice called, "Mr. Chance! Mrs. Chance! Ya gotta come quick. Your horse has gone plum loco!"

Chance yanked open the door. A disheveled-looking boy in overalls stood outside. "What's going on?"

"He's gone crazy," the boy said, heading down the hall. "He's fixin' to kick his way outta the stall. Can't none of us grab him 'cause if we try, he bites! Hurry!"

Of all the times for Julia's damn broom to throw a tantrum. What am _I_ supposed to do, Chance wondered as he jogged after the boy. The damn thing hates me. "Dammit, Julia, where are you?"

Inside the stable, three or four men stood well back from Cedric's stall, watching the angry horse kick the stall door. "Gonna have to charge for the damage," one, distinguished from his cronies by an oversize Adam's apple, said. Chance ignored him.

Putting every ounce of authority he could muster into his voice, he shouted, "Cedric! Cut it out!"

Cedric turned in his stall. Ears flat, he stared straight into Chance's eyes. One heavy hoof pawed the bedding. Somehow, Cedric must sense Julia was in trouble.

"All right, we'll go find her." Turning to the boy, he said, "Where's his tack?"

"I'll get it."

"Look, you," Chance said just loud enough for Cedric to hear, "I don't like you, and you don't like me. But it'll take both of us to find your mistress. So cooperate."

Cedric's tail swished, but he didn't resume kicking.

The boy returned, a bridle draped over his shoulder and lugging Julia's side-saddle.

"Hey, lookee there," one of the idling men said, and after a moment they burst into raucous guffaws.

"Heard you was a schoolmaster," the one with the Adam's apple said. "More like schoolmarm." The men hooted, egging him on. "Like to see you ride that-there rig. G'wan saddle up."

"No time," Chance said, taking the bridle from the boy. "Son, go find a regular saddle I can borrow or rent."

"Hold on there, Davey. I wanna see the schoolmarm here mount that lady's rig." The man took two steps toward Chance. "Saddle yer horse."

"Look. My wife's gone missing. She's in poor health. I'll come play all the games you want after I've found her."

The man was still coming, his cronies a pace or two behind. Chance sighed and readied himself to take them out as fast and dirty as possible.

Something flashed past him and buried itself in a support post not two inches from the lead heckler's left ear. The men stopped like they'd hit a brick wall and stared at the still quivering Bowie knife.

"Boy, bring saddle," said a voice from behind Chance. "And horse for me. You men want to hoo-rah, hoo-rah me. You first, Otis? All three together? Come on."

The man called Otis swallowed, making his Adam's apple perform jumping jacks. "Aw, we was just funnin' him some. Meant no harm. C'mon boys, we got stalls to clean."

The men beat a hasty retreat to the far end of the stable. Davey scurried off in the opposite direction.

Chance hoped he hid his shock when he turned and offered his hand to the knife-thrower. "Much obliged," he said. "Name's Christopher Chance."

"I am called Apache Pete. Pete is enough. Mose Winston say to look you up."

They shook hands.

Apache Pete might be the runt Winston had called him, but he conveyed an aura of menace far exceeding his size. His fringed buckskin coat, embellished with exquisite beadwork and porcupine quills, looked straight out of _Dances with Wolves._ Two long, tawny braids bound with rawhide emerged from beneath a black beaver hat. Knee-high moccasins and buckskin breeches completed his attire. A rifle rested in the crook of his arm.

Pete freed his knife from the post and slipped it into a sheath on a sash tied around his coat. "You say wife is missing?"

Chance hesitated, unsure how much to disclose. Finally he said, "She was supposed to meet me over an hour ago. Someone told me he saw her in a buggy heading for Charleston. Her horse here seems to know when she's…ailing. He was acting up so I thought I'd better go looking."

Davey returned, leading a roan mare already saddled. He carried a stock saddle for Chance.

"No flying," Chance admonished as he gingerly tightened the cinch. Cedric gave him a look that said 'You think you can stop me?' "Please," Chance amended.

"Why does wife travel to Charleston without husband? Road not safe for woman alone."

"She wasn't alone. She was with…an acquaintance, Josie Marcus."

Pete grunted. "That _bruja_ bad medicine, _N'deen_. Best keep wife away from her, you savvy?"

They mounted up. As they reached the outskirts of town, Pete said, "Mose say you need someone handy with rifle. Before I help, like to know why."

It seemed as good an opportunity to explain as any. Chance began telling his story once again.

* * *

Julia came to her senses with her arms and ankles bound to a rickety ladder-back armchair with one too-short leg. She was in a tumble-down adobe structure she didn't recognize. Someone else was in the room-a woman with long dark hair, worn loose. She chanted under her breath as she stirred the contents of a cauldron suspended over a small fire in a crumbling stone fireplace.

"Who are you? Why did you tie me up? Let me go this instant!"

The last thing Julia remembered was climbing into a buggy to accompany Besse Earp to…where? She couldn't recall. Obviously the woman wasn't Besse Earp. Whatever story the woman told to lure her into the buggy was a ruse.

The woman turned. "Oh, you're conscious. I didn't intend to make you sleep so soundly. I'll let you go when I've finished here. I need to take some blood first."

"_Excuse_ me? I hope you don't intend to take _my_ blood."

Julia reached for her magic. And found…nothing. Not the slightest tingle.

"Mmmm, well, yes. With your cooperation or without it. Oh, my name's Josephine. But you'll forget that in a few minutes."

"Josephine Marcus." The black witch. Mistress of illusion. No wonder she mistook her for Besse. Just as Chance had mistaken her for Ilsa Pucci.

She remembered now. 'Besse' had pulled up beside her and said, "Are you going to the Russ House? Hop in and I'll give you a ride." She'd hoisted her skirts, clambered onto the buggy seat, and off they went. Not, however, to the Russ House."

_I am so screwed._

"Josephine Marcus _Earp_!" The woman's shrill voice made Julia jump. "Or it will be, once I tie up a few loose ends. Now be quiet while I finish mixing this potion."

Josie added ingredients, and stirred, and chanted. Julia shivered as she felt Darkness coalescing in the cabin. Now she understood why Josie kidnapped her. Any blood would do for her concoction, but a witch's blood made the potion far more powerful.

Holding a porcelain bowl in one hand, a straight-edge razor in the other, Josie turned her attention to Julia. "Don't struggle. If you do, I might slip and sever an artery. I don't want your ghost breathing down my neck, just an ounce or two of your blood. You won't even remembering furnishing it."

Josie twisted Julia's wrist to expose the pulse point. She positioned the razor and made, a small, deep gash. Blood welled up and ran into the bowl. When a rich ruby pool covered the bottom, Josie pressed her thumb to the gash, uttered a sentence or two, then released Julia's wrist.

"See? Not even a scar."

"You don't need to do this," Julia said. "You'll win Wyatt. He'll spend the rest of his life with you." If we keep him from being killed, she added mentally.

"In your universe, maybe. Not here." Josie crossed to the cauldron and poured in Julia's blood, using her fingertip to scrape every last drop into the simmering liquid. "He's going back to Mattie. She got herself pregnant, the little fool. Wyatt doesn't abandon his kin."

Julia gaped. She had not expected Josie to know about parallel universes. Nor did she know anything about a baby. None of the Earp women had even hinted Mattie might be pregnant.

"Are you…positive?"

"Of course I'm positive. I can smell it. You could, too, if you didn't waste your time practicing that white magic nonsense. I told Wyatt it wasn't his, but the arrogant sonofabitch says he knows better. So he's going back to that _shiksa _and try to turn her into a lady. The mother of his child." Her voice dripped enough venom to knock out an elephant.

Julia watched as Josie transferred the liquid from the cauldron into a flask and stoppered it.

"Josephine, if you've scryed the future, you must know Wyatt is in grave danger. He'll be killed in a gunfight if we don't prevent it. If you love him, work with us. Help us save him."

"Love him? Love is for _nudniks_ like Mattie. I have important plans for him, however, that don't include a baby and a wife who isn't me. Besides, he won't die, he'll just appear dead. This potion will revive him - now that I have the ingredient I needed to make it strong enough." Josie's smile would have sent Geronimo himself running for cover. "But the shock of thinking he's dead - combined with the abortive I slipped Mattie - will get rid of the kid and maybe her, too."

"You've _already _- "

But Julia was speaking to empty air. Slapping her palms together, Josie Marcus disappeared in a flash of light, taking her potion with her.

"Wait! Come back! You just left me here-tied up!" Julia wrenched at her bonds, which showed no indication of loosening. "Drat!"

At least Josie was in such a hurry she forgot to wipe my memory, Julia thought.

She had to warn Mattie. She could use the buggy they drove here in-wherever here was-to return to town. The horse would know the way to its stable. She needed to find Christopher. He'd be worried and angry, and was probably looking all over town for her.

But first she had to free herself from these blasted ropes. She recited an unraveling spell. Nothing. Her magic still wasn't working.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

Chance and Apache Pete drew their blowing horses to a stop on a hill overlooking Charleston Road. Beyond stood an old adobe cabin, its roof sagging, the door gone, windows shadowy voids. They'd ridden cross-country to save time, with Cedric acting as GPS.

"Someone there," Pete said. "See buggy on far side. Smoke coming from chimney."

The cabin looked vaguely familiar. "Who lives there?" Chance asked, studying the terrain to determine the best way to approach undetected.

"No one, _N'deen_. No one alive, you savvy? This is Brunkow place. All around, bad medicine."

Chance felt his neck hair quiver. He'd visited the cabin's crumbling remains when he toured the area in his own time. The tour guide had kept their stop short and his spiel shorter. The Brunkow claim was the creepiest place in a 20-mile radius of Tombstone. The site of multiple murders and even more destroyed dreams, its gruesome reputation was already well established in 1881. First Frederick Brunkow, then a host of misguided prospectors searched the area surrounding the cabin for paydirt. In an area renown for rich mineral deposits, they found nothing. They died at the hands of claim-jumpers, or hostile Indians, or even, some said, the vengeful ghosts of those who were murdered and their corpses left rotting in unmarked graves.

"Let's go have a look," Chance said.

Pete led the way to an arroyo large enough to hide their mounts a few yards from the cabin. They tethered the horses to a convenient manzanita bush. The livery horse stood with drooping head, too tired even to browse the buffalo grass growing in scattered clumps along the arroyo wall. Cedric, however, jerked at his reins and pawed the sand, refusing to be left behind.

"All right, come along," Chance said, untying the reins. "If someone in the cabin's trigger-happy, maybe they'll shoot you instead of us."

The men followed Cedric as he trotted to the cabin as if he lived there, and whinnied a greeting. The horse hitched to the buggy answered. Much to Chance's relief, so did Julia.

"I'm in here! I'm alone. I'm tied up."

"Come meet Julia," Chance said. "She's a witch. And that stubborn damn horse is really her broom."

**… … … … …**

"So we've got to get back to Tombstone," Julia concluded. "Warn Allie. Maybe she and the others can intervene. Save the baby. There's no time to lose - Merciful Lady, Christopher, why don't you just _cut_ those ropes?"

Chance had never seen such knots. It seemed the more he tried to loosen them, the more convoluted they became. Wordlessly, Apache Pete handed him the Bowie knife. It bounced off the cords as if they were steel reinforced.

"Let's take the chair apart," Chance said, looking around for something to use as a pry bar.

"Have idea," Pete said.

He slipped off a rawhide thong that encircled his neck. A beaded pouch dangled from it. Chanting softly, he lifted the pouch to north, east, south, and west. Then he knelt beside Julia and touched the pouch to the cords binding her wrists. There was an odd sound, like a heavy lock unlatching. The bonds fell away, dissolving into powder when they struck the floor.

Julia rubbed her wrists. "Thank you, Sweetling. How very clever of you."

Chance stared at the powder. "I'll be d - "

"Don't say it!" Julia shouted.

" - hornswoggled," Chance finished. He took Julia's hand, steadying her as she gained her feet. "Easy does it."

"I'm fine. Chance, it'll take less time if I go alone. On Cedric."

"I didn't bring your side-saddle."

"I'll ride astride."

"In that outfit?"

Julia glanced down at the bustled morning frock she wore. "You're right. It won't survive full speed broom-flight. Besides, I'm not sure my magic has recovered enough to let me fly. I need to try something less demanding first."

She raised both hands and snapped her fingers. A puff of blue smoke appeared, surrounded her, and swirled itself into a cape and riding habit with a divided skirt.

Pete uttered a low whistle. "Nice dress."

Ya should've seen the negligee, Chance thought.

Chance boosted Julia into the saddle. He gave Cedric a sharp slap on the rump, earning a hoof aimed at his head as Cedric went airborne. In moments Julia and Cedric were a small, dark form soaring overhead.

"I be damn," Pete muttered. "I thought you bull-shit about broom."

"How'd you make those cords dissolve," Chance asked.

Pete touched the medicine bag. "Gift from Apache grandmother. _Curandera_. Healer, you call her. Make bullets fly true. Other uses. Strong medicine, _N'deen._

**… … … … … …**

"You have thoughts on how to make plan work?" Pete asked. He drove the buggy Josie had abandoned, the livery horse tethered to the rear. "I savvy me on roof of Schefflein Hall. I savvy Mose watching O.K. Corral back gate. What is your part in saving Wyatt Earp?"

The tricky part, Chance mused as he gazed across the countryside. The rolling terrain, horse-belly high in autumn brown buffalo grass, looked nothing like the same stretch of ground in his own time, where mesquite and tumbleweeds prevailed.

"I need to be with Virgil and the others when they enter the empty lot. In case Winston can't head off that kill shot."

"That is not hard. You are friends with Virgil and Wyatt. Show up. Go with."

"More like acquainted. They think I'm a Treasury Agent. A tenderfoot. They'd tell me to get out of the way and let them do their job."

"Then warn what is to come."

"Think they'd believe me? Wyatt doesn't even believe in witches. Think he'd believe in time travel?"

"Have witch-lady show up with broom, _N'deen_. Make damn good believer, damn quick."

"Very funny. Look, Pete, I don't want to alter history any more necessary. Or create another 'wobble' in some other timeline. We can't have five men confront the rustlers because it doesn't happen anywhere else."

They rode in silence for a time as Chance mentally reviewed the moments leading up to the shoot-out: Men warning Virgil and Wyatt of impending trouble. The Citizen Safety Committee offering to back Virgil's play. Sheriff John Behan's brusque refusal to lend the authority of his badge to defuse the growing tension. Virgil's decision to face down the rustlers. Virgil, Wyatt, and Morg leaving Hafford's Corner and walking toward Fremont Street. Where they meet Doc Holliday….

"Doc Holliday joins them at Fourth Street and Fremont," Chance said, voicing his thoughts. "But if I take his place…."

It would work, Chance thought. It would put him right in the thick of the fighting. Exactly where he needed to be.

"Doc is good friend to Earps," Pete said. "Bad medicine for rustlers. Not afraid to die. Not let friends face enemies alone."

"We'll just have to make sure he's not there to argue about it."


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

Flying in broad daylight, Julia mused as she urged Cedric to top velocity, not only took more energy than flying after dark, it also entailed the risk someone might see you. People seldom looked up, but now and then something - the noise of a flapping cape, a shadow skimming along the ground - drew their attention. If you weren't quick enough with an amnesia spell, all sorts of rumors started circulating.

But she had no choice. If Josie had administered an abortive, every second mattered. It might already be too late.

Reaching Virgil and Allie's house, she pounded on the front door.

"Allie? Allie! It's me, Julia. Mattie's in trouble! Hurry!"

She'd feel like an idiot if Josie was only bluffing. Just the same, without waiting for a reply, she dashed across Fremont Street, dodging passing wagons and piles of horse-apples.

She pushed open the door to Wyatt's cottage without bothering to knock. "Mattie? Where are you? Mattie?"

Julia found her in the kitchen, on the floor, groaning in agony. Blood seeped in a spreading pool from between her legs.

"Oh, no."

"Save my baby," Mattie gasped, then her eyes drifted shut.

"What's going on?" came Allie's sharp query as she burst in, Lou at her heels. "Blessed Lady, what happened to her?"

"She hemorrhaging," Julia said. "Aborting. Dark magic. Josie's doing."

"Is she…dead?" Lou asked in a trembling whisper.

"She will be if we don't act fast," Allie said. "Lou, run and get Besse. Send Hattie for as many of the others as she can find in a hurry."

Before Allie finished her sentence, Lou picked up her skirts and ran.

"Julia, find some towels or sheets. We've got to stop the bleeding 'til we can form a healing circle. Damn Wyatt and that whoring witch. I'd like to shoot them both meself!"

* * *

Although the Wiccan women prevented Mattie's miscarriage, they decided to let town busy-bodies - and Josie - believe she lost the baby. They moved her to the Russ House, where Nellie Cashman's presence and powerful wards should deter further attacks if Josie learned the truth.

That night, the full coven convened at widow Maggie Shaw's house. Maggie's was the perfect meeting place, with large comfortable rooms and no husband snoring in an upstairs bedroom, or popping in, as Morgan and Virgil sometimes did, for a quick bite to eat and often an equally quick roll in the hay, leaving their women grumbling, but smiling.

Chance and Julia watched as, one by one or in small groups, the Tombstone witches arrived. Besse and her daughter, Hattie. Allie and Lou. Mary Katherine Horony Holliday - Big Nose Kate. Cora Davis who ran a house "on the line". Town matrons Nellie Cashman, who professed no affection for Wyatt Earp, but somehow always appeared in whatever town he spent any time in. Molly Fly, the photographer's wife; Addie Bourland, milliner; Sue Santee, school mistress; Petunia Reese, telegrapher's wife. With Mattie confined to bed, Julia made up the coven's thirteenth member.

Clouds obscured the stars. Wood smoke from pot-belly stoves and fireplaces filled the air but couldn't quite overpower the ever-present stench of horse manure. From far up Allen Street came the muted notes of a honky-tonk piano playing 'Oh, Susana'.

"I can't believe it," Julia whispered to Chance. Despite the chill, they stood on the screen porch, sipping Allie's lemonade punch. "Some of these women would cut the others dead if they met on the street."

They all chatted quite cordially with one another, passing the time until midnight. At last, as the chiming clock on the dining room mantelpiece struck twelve, Nellie Cashman took a seat at Maggie's dining table and rapped with a thimble on the polished surface. Julia shooed Chance off the porch and hurried to join the others.

"Ladies, let's come to order, please," Nellie said. "Merry meet."

"Merry meet," the women returned.

"As most of you already know, we have been called together tonight to discuss several important topics.

"I am pleased to inform you our sister Mattie has survived the vicious attack on herself and unborn babe, thanks in no small part to the timely warning our visiting sister, Julia, gave. Julia is our Maggie's…multi-great granddaughter."

A faint rustling arose as those who did not know this whispered to their neighbors, and were quickly shushed.

"Julia has come to us because of a complex problem occurring in her own time, caused by an event which will transpire here in two days. She entreats our help in resolving this issue, which will in turn benefit one or more of our sisters. Julia will give us details on that shortly. First, we must address another related matter which has reached an even more critical level."

Nellie reached for the tumbler in front of her. Julia waited expectantly. If Nellie had never encountered Allie's lemonade punch, she was in for a surprise.

Nellie knocked the potent liquid back as if it were water and continued speaking.

"We are all aware our demesne has been invaded by one who practices the black arts. We all know who she is. We have tolerated her malicious behavior, hoping she would soon lose interest here and depart.

"Her attack on our sister Mattie is but the most recent of her malevolent acts, and by far the most flagrant. Our tolerance has now come to an end. I will hear from any who wish to address what form her chastening should take."

* * *

The following morning, Wyatt Earp went to check on Mattie before going home to sleep. As he entered the Russ House, Nellie planted herself in front of him. "First you and I need to talk."

Seated at her desk and looking very much like a vexed school mistress, Nellie said, "Mattie doesn't want to see you. She believes you poisoned her to cause a miscarriage."

Wyatt's hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "You must know that isn't so."

"I believe you. Even Allie says you wouldn't harm your own flesh and blood."

"Allie is not fond of me."

A tiny smile curved Nellie's lips. "That's why I'm inclined to take your word. Also because we have good evidence the Marcus woman was behind it - "

"She wouldn't!"

"Oh, yes she would - and did." Nellie rose to her full five-feet-nothing and glared at the six-foot Earp standing before her. "Your dalliance with her is the root cause of all this misery. That makes you as responsible as she is. Josephine Marcus must not learn the child survives, or she will attack again."

"I have ended it with Josephine. I told Mattie I would. I'd like to see her. Tell her so myself."

**… … … … …**

An hour later Wyatt was picking at his breakfast at the Cosmopolitan Hotel dining room. Mattie refused to see him. Nellie had promised to talk to her on his behalf, but sent him away in the meantime.

A momentary silence, then the murmur of whispered comments alerted him someone interesting had arrived. It came as no surprise when Josephine Marcus, resplendent in a plaid morning frock, matching hat and crimson cloak entered the dining room.

Pointedly, he didn't stand when she reached his table.

Josephine frowned when the waiter, not Wyatt, helped her remove her cloak. Ignoring the slight, she seated herself across from him and ordered coffee. Around them, normal conversations resumed. People were accustomed to seeing her keeping company with Wyatt Earp. She intended to keep it that way.

"I heard about Mattie's…misfortune," she said, as if their last conversation had never taken place.

"Did you."

His voice held none of its usual ardor. To be expected, she supposed. The poor man had just lost another child. Would have lost his second 'wife' too, if those butt-insky Wiccans had tended their own cauldrons.

"I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. That I did everything I could to prevent this."

He gazed at her with the same regard he might accord a centipede crawling from beneath his plate. This was not good. Had he somehow learned what she'd done?

"Is that so?" Wyatt said. "How did you hope to prevent it when you did not know Mattie was with child?"

Inwardly Josie smiled. Just what she hoped he would ask. "Oh, but I did know. I didn't want to tell you this, Wyatt, but I believe you deserve the truth. I knew about the baby long before you did. When Mattie first realized she was pregnant, she came to me. Asked me for help in - I'm sorry, Wyatt, 'getting rid of it' is what she said."

"Why come to you? You're no physician. And no friend of hers."

Josie made fluttering motions with her hands. "Oh, you know those silly rumors about me. I suppose she thought I'd have some magic potion to…end pregnancies. I told her no. Even if I possessed such a thing, I wouldn't help murder your child. I…assume she found some other way."

He wasn't buying it. She could see it in his eyes. His gaze held all the warmth of those glacier fields she'd read about where people lived in huts made of snow and ice.

"It was a little girl," she said, not knowing if she were correct, or caring. "I'm so sorry you lost her. I understand that you'll need some time to grieve. When you are…more yourself again, I'll be waiting. We can still make a future together."

Why, Wyatt wondered, had he never seen it before? Never realized that concern for her own pleasures, fulfilling her own desires, were always what mattered most to Josie. He stood and picked up his hat.

"Save your pity."

He wanted to look her dead in the eye and tell her scheme had failed. His child still lived, safe and sound in Mattie's belly. But Nellie's warning held sway. He kept his jubilation to himself.

"And understand this," he said. "I am done with you. Don't come to me again. Don't come near my family. I put no stock in rumors of black magic, but I warn you - if harm comes to any of my family, any one of them, I will hunt you down and slit your throat if takes the last breath of my life."

Josie gasped. The look she saw in his eye had caused many a hardened outlaw to quail. It chilled her to the bone.

"You don't mean that," she said in her most cajoling tones. "You're overwrought. When you've - Wyatt?"

His back was turned. He was striding from the table without a backward glance.

"You don't just walk away from me, Wyatt Earp," she shrieked. Every head in the dining room turned to stare. Quick as a flash she wove an amnesia spell and cast it over the diners. No one would remember even seeing her enter the hotel. Nor hearing her shout, "This isn't the end of anything. I'll bring you to heel one way or another!"

By the time Josephine neared her cottage, her temper had cooled somewhat. Wyatt was distraught, that was all. He'd come crawling back, once some time had passed. Now that the kid was disposed of, there was no reason for him not to. Just the same, Mattie had to go. And what better way to remove her from the picture than by framing her for shooting Wyatt Earp? She smirked as she realized her unintended pun.

She'd like to inflict some damage on that interfering white witch who'd caused so much mischief, too. But soon enough she'd be gone, back to her own time with her tail between her legs.

So: tomorrow, as the time of the gunfight approached, she would appear in public as Mattie. Be seen by as many people as possible.

Next, shoot Wyatt. Not kill him of course, but put him into a deathlike sleep. Coma, they called it.

Then, let the law attend to Mattie. She wouldn't hang, but the 25 years she'd serve in Yuma Prison was a fate worse than death.

Last, revive Wyatt. Josie couldn't restrain her cackle. The 'miraculous recovery' he'd undergo would also revive his fame. She could see the headline: _WYATT EARP: BACK FROM THE DEAD_. The road show would be even more spectacular than she first envisioned.

Her plans were all in place. Only one tiny issue remained. Too many people at the Russ House could swear Mattie was in her bed, recuperating from her miscarriage at the time Wyatt was shot. She'd have to cast a sleep spell on everyone inside, and to do that, she'd have to get rid of Nellie and nullify the woman's tenacious wards.

She needed power. Lots of it.

Josie smiled as she turned and retraced her steps along Allen Street to the Western Union Telegraph office. She knew two men whose tainted blood would provide all the power she needed: gunman John Ringo, and his cow-thief crony, Curly Bill Brocius.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

That night, forewarned of impending danger, the Earp women gathered to ward their men. The warding might not forestall every injury, but with one exception would prevent death. That was Chance's job.

This time Mattie insisted on taking part in the ceremony. When Chance lifted her from Nellie Cashman's buggy, she felt no heavier than a ten-year-old child. Even as numbed by laudanum as she was, her diminished magic would help. Wyatt was her man. Although Doc Holliday would not take part in tomorrow's confrontation, Kate insisted on warding him in case something went wrong. Like Allie, she resented Wyatt, but Doc loved him and that was what mattered.

This time they gathered informally in Maggie's kitchen. From time to time, one or another paused at the cookstove to mutter over and stir the contents of a blackened five quart pot. The Earp women brought the detritus menfolk always left behind: hair and whiskers, nail parings, semen. Mattie's contribution lacked this last vital element. Chance wondered if this missing substance might be what allowed the bullet that would penetrate Wyatt's warding to kill him. He watched his own sample - so fresh the sperm were probably still swimming - go into the cauldron. Then he was ushered out the door.

Chance collected a change of clothing, then walked uptown to visit a bath house and get a barbershop shave. He found the Parlor Bathing and Shaving Salon doing a brisk business. He was shown to a hot, steamy tub quickly enough, but the barbers were busy. Bathed and dressed, Chance sat listening, pretending to read a finger-smeared _Daily Epitaph_ as he waited his turn under the straight-edge razor.

"I heard Ike Clanton came close to having it with Doc at the Alhambra a little while ago."

"Clanton's askin' for a busted head."

"Holliday's pissed. He's pi'zon when he's drunk and pissed."

"I seen Johnny Ringo and Curly Bill ride in. Them Earps are in for now, you ask me."

"No one did. Haw haw haw."

"You reckon they'll side with Ike, come a showdown?"

Chance wondered the same thing. In his own timeline, these two deadly gunmen were conspicuous by their absence from the affray. Nor were their names mentioned in the alternate newspaper account of the gunfight, so maybe the gunmen would decide to keep to the sidelines. Most historians agreed that if these men had backed the rustlers, the gunfight would have had a very different outcome.

As Chance made his way back to the San Jose House, Mose Winston emerged from the shadows like a dark genii, Apache Pete by his side.

"Clanton uptown, running mouth like you say," Pete said. The Bowie knife glittered in the dim gaslight. "Can cut throat tonight. No fight tomorrow."

"Can't do it," Chance said, smothering a smile. Pete was a blood-thirsty little rooster. "We have to follow history as much as possible. But I heard something important. John Ringo and Curly Bill Brocius are in town."

"I was comin' to tell you that," Mose said. "Seen 'em stablin' their hosses over at Dexter's earlier. Maybe Pete should pay them a little visit."

"Agree. Those two make much trouble."

Chance was tempted. He didn't like this development at all. He had no doubt Pete could sneak in and execute them as they slept. Then he shook his head. "Just be ready if they mix in," he said. No one deserved to die.

The men moved off, heading toward the O.K. Corral to finalize their plans.

* * *

Julia was in bed when Chance returned to their room. She was propped up on pillows, her hair loose and flowing. Her muslin nightgown with its pink and green sprigged pattern offered tantalizing hints of the warm flesh beneath it.

"Oh, Christopher, you smell good," she said when he crossed to the bed and seated himself on the edge. "Lavender water. Pomade."

He began toeing off his boots. "I feel like I should be pouring red-eye and twirling a mustache." He stood, crossed to the dresser, took off his pocket watch and vest, and began removing shirt studs, cuff-links, tie, collar, shirt.

"I'm sure glad someone will invent attached collars and clip-on ties by the time I'm born."

"Don't complain to me. At least you don't have to wear a corset and dresses with thirty-two buttons up the back."

He gave her a look. "How do you manage to get all that undone without help? Wait, I think I already know." He wriggled his fingers in the air. She stuck out her tongue.

"I tried to wait for you to help me, but I was getting sleepy. Warding takes lots of energy."

"How'd it go?"

"Successful, I think. These ladies are all very powerful. I just wish I knew what Josie's going to do next. That woman scares me."

"Well, after tomorrow we can go home and let someone else worry about Josie." Chance began unbuttoning his fly. "I walked past her house a while ago. Didn't see any lights on."

"I bet she's out trying to win Wyatt back. I just don't understand what he sees in her."

Clad only in underdrawers, Chance slipped between the sheets. "You'd have to be a man. She's one hot number. Mmmm, so are you, my little witchling. Wanna ride my broom?"

* * *

It fell to Kate Harony Holliday, the following morning, to keep Doc Holliday under wraps without letting him figure out something was going on. One whiff of the trouble still brewing on Allen Street and he'd be right in the thick of it.

She wakened him for breakfast - whiskey, coffee, and some of Molly Fly's feather-light biscuits. When he was distracted with a fit of coughing, she slipped a sleeping potion into his whiskey. She and Molly had to almost carry Doc back to bed.

"I don't get it," Molly said in a hushed murmur as Kate locked the door to their room and returned with Molly to her kitchen. "If the Earps are in danger, why keep the one man most able to save their hides from backing their play? Who's that Mr. Chance that follows Julia around?"

Kate hated secrets. Secrets she knew but couldn't tell, secrets she didn't know and no one would tell her. She could never keep anything quiet. If she sensed someone was keeping something from her, her scalp itched and throbbed like she wore a crown of poison ivy until she ferreted out the details. Her predilection for snooping earned her the sobriquet "Big Nose" - a misunderstood nickname that clung to her even decades after her death.

This was one secret she had to keep, even from a sister witch. Only those immediately involved knew 'that Mr. Chance' would impersonate Doc later on today.

"Doc'll be there in spirit if anything happens," Kate said. "That's all I can tell you right now."

**… … … … …**

After breakfast, Chance and Julia walked to the Russ House to check on Mattie.

"She's still asleep," a maid told them. "And Miss Nellie's not here. She got a message this morning about some prospector she grub-staked. Said he got hurt and was askin' for her. She rode out to his claim to see how bad."

Chance and Julia glanced at each other. "Strange she'd leave Mattie unguarded," he said. "Would she know if it was a trick?"

"I'm sure she would. But Mattie's not unguarded. Nellie's wards are in place. I can feel them."

* * *

Events continued to unwind. Ike Clanton prowled Allen Street, issuing threats. Virgil and Morg sneaked up, buffaloed him, took away his guns and hauled him off to court. Outside the magistrate's courtroom, Wyatt and Tom McLaury exchanged words. Wyatt, normally cool as ice, knocked the young outlaw down and left him reeling in the street.

Ike was seen in the Western Union office, laboriously scrawling some missive. Around one o'clock, several more Clanton riders drifted into town. In their room at the Grand Hotel, John Ringo and Curly Bill waited for the fun to start.

The temperature was dropping. Snow and occasional flurries of sleet came and went. Chance and Julia returned to their room, where Chance donned a suit identical in style and cut to garments Doc Holliday wore. He slipped a nickel-plated revolver into a worn leather holster, then hunched into a heavy overcoat and picked up an ebony walking stick.

Thus dressed, he might resemble Doc from a distance, but the Earps would recognize an imposter in a heartbeat. It would take magic to complete the impersonation.

"Almost two," Julia said. "Stand still while I do your enchantment. Christopher?"

"Yeah?"

Julia wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Don't get killed."

"You, either, Red."


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER14  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

As the hands on the Regulator clock in Hafford's Corner Saloon drifted toward 2:00 PM, the Earp brothers gathered inside. Morg fidgeted. Virgil paced. Wyatt smoked a cigar and watched people passing outside.

"I don't like it," Wyatt said finally. "Ringo rode in yesterday. Curly Bill, too. They haven't been seen since. They're up to something."

"Long as they stay off the streets they can't shoot at us," Morg said. He pulled his revolver and gave the cylinder a spin, checking the load. "Me, I'd as soon not have to dodge John Ringo's bullets. That S-O-B doesn't miss. We see him, I say shoot first, ask questions afterward."

"I'd as soon not dodge anyone's bullets," Virgil said. "Cool off, Morg."

A short time later, a man hurried into the saloon, button-holed Virgil, and spoke urgently. Virgil listened, nodded, thanked the man.

"That's it," Virgil told his brothers. "They're all down by Fly's, carrying guns and making fight talk." He reached for the sawed-off shotgun he'd propped beside the saloon's batwing doors. "Let's go take away their guns and see how big they talk."

**… … … … … …**

Farther down Allen Street, a woman dressed in mourning, conspicuously weeping, staggered as if drunk or in pain as she walked. She shrugged off those who offered help. "I'm going to shoot the bastard," she told them. "He killed our baby. I'm going to kill him."

"Mattie Earp," the few who recognized Wyatt's wife said. "What's the matter with her? What's she doing?"

Those who had heard about a miscarriage whispered the news to those who had not. No one could decide what to do, so no one did anything but watch as 'Mattie' entered the O.K. Corral.

Josie laughed inwardly at her successful deception. A few blocks away, the inhabitants of the Russ House went about their activities with less conscious thought than a mule plodding on a treadmill. Her blood-empowered spell had oozed over, around, and beneath Nellie Cashman's wards with no one the wiser. Mattie could insist she never left her bed 'til the women's cell-block door at Yuma Prison clanged shut behind her. All anyone checking on her would see was the illusion of an empty room, and swear to it in court.

Carrying a rifle loaded with the be-spelled cartridges that would send Wyatt into a deathlike slumber, Josie walked past the hammering blacksmith without a second glance. She continued through toward Freemont Street, following the drunken laughter and boasting coming from the empty lot beyond the corral's rear entrance.

**… … … … …**

Chance watched Virgil, Wyatt, and Morgan leave Hafford's Corner. Scattered snowflakes drifting from leaden skies dusted the men's hats and overcoat as they strolled diagonally across Fourth Street. When they reached Freemont, Chance's slender, somewhat stooped form moved into their path.

"Goin' somewhere?" he asked in Doc Holliday's soft southern drawl.

"This is no mix-in of yours, Doc," Wyatt said. "You shouldn't even be outdoors."

"That's a hell of a thing for you to say to me. 'Sides, there's a passel of cow-thieves armed to the teeth outside my front door. I c'n either try jawin' them to death, or shoot my way to my bed. It's a mite cold to stand outside jawin', and I don't know as I've got enough ammo to finish off all of 'em."

"Jesus, Doc," Morg said.

"Take this," Virgil said, deciding the matter. He handed Doc the shotgun. "Put it under your coat and don't show it if you don't have to. "I want this done peaceable if we can."

Morg snorted. Chance handed Virgil his cane and took the shotgun. Shoulder to shoulder, Wyatt and Virgil turned the corner onto Fremont, with Morgan and Chance two steps behind. Loaded with double-ought buckshot, Virgil's shotgun weighed a ton. Chance was thankful to have it. Doc's nickel-plated .31 caliber pistol with its four-inch barrel was little more than a pop-gun compared to the .44's, .45's, and rifles the outlaws possessed.

As they rounded the corner, he spotted Apache Pete on the roof of Schefflein Hall, ready to take out any enemy snipers. He couldn't see City Hall's rooftop as they passed by, but he had no doubt Julia was atop it, ready to fight witchcraft with witchcraft. She would be disappointed if she didn't get to use her Witch Lightning. He just hoped it didn't come to that.

Winston was in place, the steady tapping of his hammer signaling all was well at his post beyond the O.K. Corral's rear gate.

Sheriff John Behan, looking somewhat less than dapper, came scurrying from the vacant lot where Clanton's men were gathered. His hands were raised palms out in a 'halt' gesture.

"There's no need to go in there and start a fight," Behan said. "Just let them leave town."

"They could have done that an hour ago. I'm going to disarm them," Virgil said, and brushed past..

"I've already done that," Behan called after him.

Morgan shouldered the smaller man aside without breaking stride. He turned to Chance. "I'm ready to fight. I say let 'em have it."

Chance watched Virgil holster his gun, and Wyatt place his in his overcoat pocket. His mouth felt dry as the gritty boardwalk beneath his boots. Even knowing Behan lied when he said he disarmed the rustlers, that he as Doc, and Morg would fire the first shots, Chance couldn't help hoping this time the rustlers would surrender. That he need not kill to save Wyatt's life.

They halted at the edge of the vacant lot where history recorded five men against three Earps and Holliday. Chance counted seven, maybe eight. History had gotten it wrong.

Beside him, Morg whispered, "Shit. That's Curly Bill and John Ringo."

For the first time, Chance began to wonder if, in any of the multitude of alternate universes, Doc Holliday fell to an outlaw's bullet at the O.K. Corral.

One man broke from the Clanton group and sprinted for Fly's gallery. Good, Chance thought. One less gun. That left Frank McLaury and Ike Clanton on one side of the lot, Billy Clanton, two horses, and Tom McLaury on the other. Closer to Fly's gallery, local quick-draw artist Billy Claiborne stood spraddle-legged, itching to draw. Farther back, half hidden behind the other men, John Ringo and Curly Bill Brocius waited like two rattlesnakes, coiled and ready to strike. Each and every man held, wore, or stood within arm's reach of a handgun or rifle.

Chance took a deep breath. Damn, he missed the transceivers he relied on in his own time. If Pete and Julia didn't realize Ringo and Curly Bill had indeed dealt themselves in, and take steps to neutralize the two gunmen, he and the Earps were on their own and hopelessly out-gunned.

Morg, however, was already revising strategy. Unlike his brothers, unlike Chance, Morg meant to eliminate the bad guys before they eliminated him. "You take out Ringo first thing, Doc, then Frank McLaury," he said. "I'll try for Brocius, then Billy Clanton."

Seeing no other option, Chance replied in Doc's words, "All right," and drew the nickel-plated pistol.

"You boys throw up your hands, you're under arrest," Virgil called.

Chance gave up trying to keep the shotgun hidden. Holding it one-handed, he tossed his overcoat aside. As one, he and Morg drew their pistols and thumbed the hammers back. At the distinctive sound, Virgil's head snapped around, Doc's cane raised high.

"Hold it! I don't want that - "

Too late.

Everything went into slow motion before Chance's gaze. Frank McLaury staggered from a slug in the belly even as his own gun roared. Chance saw Ringo's six-gun point directly at Wyatt. He aimed at Ringo, knowing the distance was too much for anything but a lucky hit. Before Ringo could squeeze off the shot, Chance heard a Winchester's unmistakable crack. Ringo dropped as if poleaxed. Billy Clanton fell a moment later, but kept on shooting.

The horses plunged and kicked as bullets flew past their noses and under their bellies, and something that felt like static electricity crackled and popped. Curly Bill suddenly dropped to his knees, yelling and beating at flames erupting from his chest. Witch Lightning. Another sizzle and Ringo's body was simply gone. Curly Bill, trailing smoke, staggered through the rear gate, making for the closest water trough. Ike Clanton ran, perhaps to avoid the frantic horses, perhaps, as Wyatt later asserted, because Ike was yellow.

Ike stopped, tried to grapple with Wyatt. Wyatt shoved him aside. "You wanted this fight, get to fighting or get out!"

"No! Stop him!" Chance shouted.

He sent two desperate rounds after the rustler. Bullets splintered wood under Ike's boot soles as he scrambled through the gallery entrance and out of sight. Now it was all up to Winston.

Virgil got off a round that finally stopped Billy Clanton and for a moment all was still. About twenty seconds had passed. Chance holstered his empty pistol, backing toward Fremont Street. His eyes burned and the thick black powder smoke and dust the horses churned up blinded him. He heard another shot that seemed to come from the gallery, or maybe behind them. Morg yelped and fell.

Tom McLaury popped up through the smoke like a jack-in-the-box. Startled, Chance swung the shotgun up and fired both barrels. McLaury staggered off to die. Virgil dropped, grabbing his leg and cursing. Now only Chance and Wyatt still stood, Wyatt coolly taking aim before squeezing the trigger, Chance struggling to re-load the pistol. Morgan laid down a withering cross-fire from the ground - blasting anything that moved.

"Got you now!"

Tom's brother Frank, wounded, half dragged by his horse, had gotten behind them. Pivoting, Chance found himself nose-to-nose with the rustler, unable to shoot. The damned pistol had jammed.

"You're a daisy if you do," Chance said, reciting the words Doc would have said, and wondered if they were the last words he'd ever speak.

As he reared back to fling the useless pistol at the outlaw, a sharp pain, like a knife gouge, ripped across Chance's right hip. McLaury grinned. Thumbed the hammer to fire again. Then lurched and sprawled on his face in the dirt. Once again, Apache Pete's marksmanship saved the day.

All at once it became very quiet.

Chance looked around. People were beginning to appear from surrounding buildings, looking around. Then he realized he no longer heard Winston's hammer. Instinct propelled him straight at Wyatt.

Both men heard the whiz as a slug tore past, the dull "thwack" as it imbedded itself into something wooden, right at the level at Wyatt's heart. Wyatt later claimed he stumbled into a trench dug for a water pipeline and fell, but it was Chance's tackle that saved his life.

"Let me _go_, you sonovabitch!" a woman's voice shrieked. "He killed our baby. I'm going to kill him!"

Not Ike Clanton. Mattie.

Oddly, it seemed no one else heard the woman, or found it peculiar Wyatt and Doc were clambering to their feet, brushing dust and weeds from their clothing. Julia's work, Chance thought, and wished he could flash her a thumbs up.

"That's another one I owe you, Doc," Wyatt said and offered his hand.

Chance grasped it. "Let's hope I never have to collect."

Wyatt went to help Morg to his feet. A moment later, Julia appeared at Chance's side.

"Christopher, are you okay? Were you hit?"

His hip burned like fire, now that she mentioned it. "Just a scratch."

"Then hurry. Mose has Mattie, but I don't think it's really her."

Winston had one huge arm around Mattie's neck, cutting off blood flow to her brain. Mattie's kicking and flailing slowly subsided. The rifle she'd fired slipped from her grasp. And then, to no one's real surprise except Mose's, Mattie's features dissolved into those of Josephine Marcus.

With a cry of horror, Mose pushed himself away from the unconscious witch. As he scrambled back, Nellie Cashman and two more Tombstone witches appeared and bent over Josie's limp form. Mose picked up the rifle as if it were a snake, swiftly disassembled it, then strolled to his forge as if nothing unusual had ever happened. Only someone standing beside him might have noticed how much his hands trembled as he dropped the rifle parts into the forge.

"Time to trade places with Doc," Julia said. "Get Kate to put something on that scratch."

Chance made himself walk nonchalantly into Fly's. Opening the door, he spotted the rustler who'd earlier dashed into the gallery. The man sat propped against one wall, holding a bloody handkerchief to his head. His holster was empty, the gun kicked out of reach. Big Nose Kate stood a step or two away, brandishing Molly Fly's rolling pin, which she handed to Julia. Hooking her arm through Chance's Kate led him down the hall to Doc's room.


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15  
Tombstone, Arizona Territory  
1881

That evening, the Earp brothers and their wives gathered at Virgil's house. Neither Virgil's nor Morgan's injuries were life-threatening, but painkillers of the time gave little relief. The wives were too annoyed with them to conjure palliatives, so both were growing drunker by the minute on the 'medicinal' brandy Chance had smuggled past Allie. Wyatt merely brooded. No one paid any attention when Chance slipped into the kitchen to join the women.

Julia wasn't with the others. Nellie Cashman and the Earp wives were seated around the kitchen table. Mattie was saying, "I'll be going to stay with my sister in Denver as soon as I can travel. Wyatt will join me when he's tied up some loose ends here."

"And good riddance," Allie muttered.

"What are you going to do about Josie?" Chance asked. "You can't just turn her loose."

"Oh, we've seen to Josie," Nellie said, looking pleased with herself. "In fact, she's already a long way from here. Maggie and your Julia have…umm…escorted her out of town."

"You don't think she'll try to contact Wyatt later on? She seemed pretty determined to win him."

"She can try. But I doubt she'll have much success. In fact, I think she'll be too busy dodging the hangman's noose to hatch any more schemes. Salem in the 1690s wasn't fond of witches."

The glint in Nellie's eye gave Chance cold chills. Just the same, he couldn't shake the feeling that Josie was far from defeated. But he'd done what he came here to do. The sooner he returned to his own time, the better. Back to hot showers and electric razors, and pants with zippers. To find out if they managed to stop the wobble.

From outside came the rustle of long skirts and the snort of a very tired horse. "Oh, they're back already." Nellie stood and reached for her reticule. "That Cedric is one fine broom."

The kitchen door opened. Maggie Shaw and Julia came in, looking windblown, but satisfied. "Did everything go smoothly?" Nellie asked. They nodded. "Good. Then I'll be on my way. Good night, sisters, Mr. Chance."

"Ready to go, Red?"

He'd been aching to get Julia back to their room since enduring the slap-dash dressing Kate gave his bullet scrape, and promote a little TLC from a certain red-haired witch. Nothing like a good brush with death to get the testosterone flowing.

"Almost." Julia slid into the chair Nellie Cashman had vacated. "But first I want a glass of Allie's lemonade punch. Witch-napping is thirsty business."

**…. … … …. ….**

* * *

**… … … … … …**

San Francisco, California  
2011

Guerrero was waiting when the elevator door opened. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his fingers clenched and unclenched as if he were squeezing the life from something.

"Come look at this, Dude. It started about ten minutes after you left."

"Tol' ya he's pissed," Winston said with exaggerated cheerfulness.

"Nice to see you, too," Chance said with a grin. "Yes, we were successful. No, no one got injured. And, since I don't see any new cracks in the plaster, I assume the wobble has stabilized."

As he reached the conference room, Guerrero went into full tirade mode.

"I don't know what program you let your ladyfriend install, but it's over-riding everything I try to do."

Chance studied the monitor. Lines of data flew across the screen too rapidly for the human eye to decipher. Strange, pulsing patterns appeared, lingered, then dissolved into a rainbow-hued swirl. From time to time, beeps and blurps sounding eerily like a form of language issued from the speakers.

"It killed System Restore. Diagnostics show the system in a blue-screen malfunction one moment, perfectly normal the next."

Chance gathered his courage, took his life in his hands and asked, "No luck restarting in safe mode?"

His voice dripping sarcasm, Guerrero said, "No, Dude, I never even thought about doing that." He removed his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. "Besides, it refuses to shut down and restart, except when it does it on its own. All it will let me do is this."

Guerrero pressed some keys. After a moment, the screen cleared. A woman's face appeared on the monitor as if she stood before a webcam.

"Please…I'm not certain I'm operating this…device correctly but the matter is terribly urgent."

Chance stared at the woman's short, dark hair, the huge dark eyes, her air of wealth and exquisite breeding apparent even over the flickering monitor screen.

As an example of how _not_ to carry out an assassination, the Old Man liked to show a film shot in Dealey Plaza, November 22, 1963. A film the Warren Commission never acquired. It captured where the killing shots originated, and indistinct images of who pulled the triggers.

"If I'd trained those bozos," the Old Man liked to boast, "no one would've even guessed there was more than one shooter. And Oswald would've gotten away clean."

The film had left Chance dumbstruck. But it was the woman's blood-spattered pink outfit, her desperate attempt to help a secret service agent climb into the presidential limousine, that had burned indelible images into his brain.

"If anyone can hear me, please answer."

Chance braced his palms on the conference table. "I can hear you. My name is Christopher Chance. Tell me how I can help."

The woman started, then her gaze found the camera lens. "Thank heavens. You're the man I was told to find. I'd almost given up. Mr. Chance, my name is Jacqueline Kennedy. I believe someone is plotting to murder my husband, John."

=The End=


End file.
